


The Fallen Oak

by lindirs_gaze



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bilbo Is Doing His Best, Did I mention angst, Fluff, Ghost!Thorin, Grief, M/M, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindirs_gaze/pseuds/lindirs_gaze
Summary: Grieving and heartbroken, Bilbo returns to the Shire after the Battle of the Five Armies. Following the dying words of a dear friend, he plants his acorn on the hill above his home. But something strange happens overnight: an oak tree grows, full and healthy, and with it returns someone Bilbo thought he would never see again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 

“Who is this person you pledged your service to?”

Bilbo froze, halfway up the steps leading to his front door.

“Thorin...Oakenshield?”

He could feel the gazes of the crowd of hobbits on his back. The heat of the early summer sun made sweat gather where his cloak rested against his neck. A lump grew in his throat, and he fought to breathe against the sudden tightness in his chest. Even if he’d been able to speak, the words still wouldn’t have come.

What could he say? What could he say to this group of hobbits, who’d never had to worry about anything worse than a stubbed toe or a leaky roof, about Thorin Oakenshield—the bravest and wisest dwarf he had ever met? They wouldn’t be able to understand any of it, not the battles, the blood, the tears and betrayal and danger they had faced together. How could he possibly put into words what Thorin had done for his people, what he had done for Bilbo?

“He...He was my friend.”

The words were unsteady, an oversimplification, crumbling even as he said them, and it was all he could do to push open the door to his house and disappear inside.

Bag End was empty. Most of his furniture was gone, auctioned off to the hobbits clamoring outside. Bits of paper and rubbish were scattered about the floor. Distantly, numbly, he noticed that most of his books had been left untouched.

_ Go back to your books and your armchair. _

He wandered through the house, feeling as though it was the first time he had been here, as though he was moving through a stranger’s abode. The living room was cold, the fireplace unlit, most of the chairs gone, but as he passed by he thought he could hear the faint echo of a low, haunting song.

Bilbo forged on. He picked up his mother’s portrait from where it had fallen and placed it next to his father’s, then straightened them both. He swept away the scraps of cloth and paper covering his floor, stacked up his books, picked up the handkerchief he had forgotten to bring with him when he’d left.

The noise outside had quieted down, meaning the crowd had probably dispersed (though Bilbo supposed none of them had deigned to return their purchased goods). 

It was deafening, the silence that was left behind. Bilbo stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching the sunlight paint the walls a buttery yellow, and let the silence echo. He let it fill him up, the emptiness of the room, because if he felt empty then he couldn’t feel the grief that had been on the edge of his consciousness, threatening to swallow him whole since the battle had ended.

One hand went unconsciously to the pocket of his waistcoat, but when his fingers slid across a familiar smooth surface, his eyes widened. He pulled out the acorn he had taken from Beorn’s house and stared down at it.

_ Plant your trees...watch them grow _ .

Bilbo could still remember it, clear as day—the way Thorin had smile at him when he had told him his silly little plan to plant the acorn. In that moment, he’d seen clarity, like a ray of sunlight, shine through, and a small, foolish part of him imagined that he’d seen something more as well.

He blinked as something hot splashed onto his palm. Bilbo stuffed the acorn back into his pocket and hastily wiped at his eyes. He hadn’t cried since the funeral (nor had he smiled), and he preferred to keep it that way.

Desperately, he delved back into the emptiness of his house, and began clearing off the dust that had settled on the tables and windowsills.

* * *

 

They hadn’t taken his bed, and Bilbo was grateful for that. It had been a long while since he’d slept in one, and even longer since he’d had a restful night. He pulled the thick covers over his body and the Baggins in him felt a small degree of comfort at the familiarity of it all. He would put everything back in order soon enough, once he’d gotten back his furniture and his silverware and cleaned everything up.

Then he could go back to quiet nights in his armchair and hot baths and going to the market on Mondays. With a little work, he could settle back in his routine.

Bilbo rolled over so he was facing the window and, unbidden, the memory of the last time he had lain facing that window came to mind. He remembered how strange the quiet had seemed, and how he had jumped up and searched his house for dwarves and finally come upon the contract lying on his sitting room table. He remembered packing in a hurry and sprinting through the Shire, feeling the wind race alongside him…

He shifted again, turning away from the window. The silence had ceased to be a distraction. It only left space in his head for more memories to come rushing in—Fili and Kili lifting him up onto a pony, the smell of summer air while sleeping outside, how much he missed the sound of snoring dwarves.

Another hour passed, and restlessness continued to buzz just under the surface of his skin. Bilbo even tried sleeping on the floor, wondering if months of sleeping on the ground had gotten rid of his ability to sleep in a real bed. But that didn’t seem to be the problem either (much to his silent gratitude).

Bilbo sighed and stood up. It seemed rest would elude him another night. He shrugged on his dressing gown and left the room.

The moon was a mere crescent in the sky, and barely lit the dark rolling hills of the Shire, but the night was warm, so Bilbo sat outside on his bench and smoked the last of the pipeweed Gandalf had given him during his journey back to the Shire.

The hour was late, and there was no sign of life in Hobbiton, save the chirping of crickets and the light rustle of wind on grass. His smoke rings hovered against the night sky, silver against black. The stars above winked like fireflies.

_ “Fireflies. It’s one of the first things I remember.” _

_ Bilbo nearly jumped at the sound of Thorin’s voice. It was nighttime, and he’d been sitting on the steps outside Beorn’s house, watching the lazy orange lights drift across the field. He hadn’t expected anyone to join him. _

_ Thorin sat down next to Bilbo, his pipe clasped loosely in one hand, his gaze still focused out on the field. “I remember watching them as a child, flitting about on the ceiling. In Erebor. I must have been very young, but the memory is strikingly clear.” _

_ He tilted his head at that, and Bilbo watched, transfixed, at the smooth movement of Thorin’s hair sliding against his shoulder, the streaks of silver against black. His profile was striking against the light of the moon, the pearly light shining on the sharp line of his nose, his cheekbones. _

_ Bilbo realized he was staring and cleared his throat, turning back to the field. “I used to chase them around, as a child. Used to pretend I was on an adventure, running around through the trees.” He let out a soft laugh. “And look at me now.” _

_ Thorin turned to him, and Bilbo felt heat creep up onto his neck. He kept his gaze on the amber glints in front of him, though he could so clearly picture the intensity of the dwarf’s stare, the azure color of his eyes. _

He could still picture it. Bilbo closed his eyes, and for a moment he could pretend was back at Beorn’s house, breathing in the aroma of pipe-weed smoke and listening to the smooth, deep sound of Thorin’s voice.

A warm breeze drifted across the hill, carrying with it the freshness of summer grass and the sweet scent of marigolds. Bilbo opened his eyes and turned his head, half-expecting to see the dwarf sitting beside him, his own pipe in hand, but of course there was no one.

_ You’re being a fool, Bilbo. _ He frowned to himself and tapped the ash out of his pipe, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He slipped the pipe back into the pocket of his dressing gown, and paused as it knocked against something else.

The acorn. Bilbo withdrew the object from his pocket and stared at the little thing. How had it gotten into his dressing gown? The seed sat there innocently, its shiny brown surface reflecting a sliver of moonlight.

_ One day it’ll grow. And everytime I look at it, I’ll remember… _

He would remember all of it—the good, the bad, the snoring dwarves and the giant spiders. There was no use in denying that. Bilbo stood up, brushed a stray bit of ash off his dressing gown, and marched back inside.

A moment later, he returned with the acorn and a trowel he’d dug up from one of the back rooms. He climbed the hill, wielding the two objects like he was marching into battle.

The earth was rich and dark as he broke it, digging a small, round hole at the peak of the hill. Gently, he laid the acorn on its side in the center and scooped dirt back over it. He stared at the spot of dirt for a while, as though hoping to see a tiny shoot sprout from the soil.

It would take years to grow. And perhaps, with each one, the act of remembering would grow a little easier.

Bilbo brushed the dirt off of his hands and went back inside.

* * *

 

He didn’t sleep well.

For once, his nightmares were not of Ravenhill, or the wall, or even of Mirkwood. In his dream, Bilbo stood in the middle of Hobbiton and watched everything wither. The grass shriveled and turned brown, the crops rotted and fell apart, and the Water dried up. He ran up the hill towards his acorn, slipping on dead grass, desperate to see if the tiny seed could still be saved. 

Before he could reach the top, a gust of biting wind knocked him over, and Bilbo felt snow on his fingertips as a wall of winter swept across the hill, drowning everything in white death.

Terrifying as it was at the moment, the memory of the dream eventually faded, and became altogether distant once morning arrived and Bilbo stood in his kitchen with a cup of tea. The brew, made from leaves he’d found stashed in the back of his nearly empty pantry, was hot and comforting and immediately banished any thoughts of winter and wither from his mind.

Of course, that didn’t change the fact that he was  _ standing _ in his kitchen with only an empty rack, a couple jars, and the fireplace (which was  _ in _ the wall and couldn’t have been removed) to keep him company. That, and he was having nothing but tea for breakfast, which obviously wouldn’t do. So, after another mug, he dressed himself and went down to the market to get started on the process of restocking his pantry.

The trip to the market was uneventful, notwithstanding the curious and sometimes cautious glances he received from his neighbors. That was all to be expected, what with his being presumed dead and such. He had the money to pay for what he needed, and that was enough to get him through.

The matter of his furniture would have to wait for now. After all, there was hardly any point in getting his kitchen table back if he had nothing to put on it. Feeling a bit more sure-footed and steady, Bilbo made his way back to Bag End, a full basket of food on one arm. 

“Mister Bilbo, sir! Wait up!”

He turned to see Hamfast Gamgee, his (former) gardner, jogging up the path to catch up with him. “Hello, Hamfast. It’s been...a while.” He hadn’t seen him at the auction the previous day, though of course he hadn’t been there for the whole thing, nor had he been paying attention to the individual hobbits as he’d passed through.

“It’s good to have you back, sir. Seein’ as everyone thought you were dead and all.” Hamfast cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, I was just wonderin’ if you’d still be needin’ any work on your garden.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t bothered to check on it since coming back. After a year without maintenance, he was sure it was all a mess, if there was anything left at all. But it would be nice to see things growing there again. Bilbo thought back to his buried acorn and nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” He began walking again and motioned for Hamfast to follow. “Why don’t we go take a look at it now?”

“Sure thing, Mister Bilbo.” Hamfast fell into stride next to him. “Glad to be back home?”

“Yes, I am,” Bilbo replied, then inwardly frowned. He hadn’t really felt  _ glad _ about anything in months. Enjoying good weather, a hot cup of tea, fresh food from the market—that was all well and good, but it didn’t make him glad. The superficiality of it all struck him, and sent a chill down the back of his spine.

He shook it away. He’d been spending too much time with dwarves, who had neither the time nor the patience for half-truths or contrived courtesies.

“And if you’d be needin’ anyone to help with you gettin’ settled, I’ll be around,” Hamfast said, drawing Bilbo out of his thoughts. “If you need help moving furniture, or the like.”

A half-smile tugged at his lips. Hamfast had always been kind, willing to take that extra step to help those around him. He reminded Bilbo of a certain bargeman. “Thank you. I will certainly take you up on…” He paused and frowned as an unfamiliar shadow fell across his vision.

Bilbo stopped dead and stared at the hulking shape standing on top of Bag End. 

A tree. An oak tree, fully grown, with strong branches and healthy green leaves, was standing where, less than twenty four hours ago, there had been a tiny acorn under a couple inches of dirt.

“Something wrong, Mister Bilbo?” Hamfast stopped as well, looking at him apprehensively.

“That tree…” Bilbo trailed off, unsure what he wanted to ask.

Hamfast looked at the tree, then turned back to him and blinked, as though trying to work out in his head what the cause of his confusion was.

“H-Has that always been there?” He had been away for over a year, but there was no way he could have forgotten an entire  _ tree _ , especially one above his own home.

“Well, of course, Mister Bilbo. Been there even before you left.” He gave a nervous chuckle, glancing at the tree, then back at Bilbo.

“Right.” The low pounding ache in his temples that had appeared that morning flared up, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. Whatever was happening here, he was sure Hamfast had no part in it, so there was no point in worrying him. “Sorry. I suppose I’m still trying to...adjust. To everything. Being back home.”

“Well, that’s to be expected.” Hamfast straightened, apparently satisfied with Bilbo’s excuse. “Though not much has changed here since you’ve been gone. You’ll have an easy time of it. Adjusting, I mean.”

Bilbo glanced back at the village as they resumed walking up the hill. It looked the same as it always had— _ he _ was the one who had changed.

_ You will not be the same _ , Gandalf had said the night of the party. And he had been right, though Bilbo never could have anticipated the way in which he had changed.

He left his basket inside the house and went with Hamfast to the garden. It was overgrown with weeds, which had choked up any of the plants that had meant to grow there. The whole thing would have to be dug up and replanted.

Hamfast said he would get started on it the next day, and Bilbo promised to pay him a little extra for it. He waited until the gardner had left and was halfway down the hill before extricating himself from the tangle of weeds and sprinting up the side of the hill, towards the tree.

As he climbed, he saw a faint wisp of smoke drift lazily through the lower boughs of the tree. His thoughts immediately turned to a certain meddling wizard, and Bilbo scowled. He’d had quite enough of Gandalf’s interfering with his life and his home.

Bilbo reached the top of the hill and tilted his head back to study the halo of leaves. It certainly looked real—nothing like the hazy illusions he had experienced in Mirkwood.

His gaze drifted downwards to the trunk, and he was surprised to see someone sitting at the base. The figure was shrouded in shadow, but given the lack of a pointy hat, he had to rule out Gandalf’s presence.

“Hello?” Bilbo inched closer to the tree. He caught a whiff of pipe-weed smoke and blinked. He recognized the scent—it was the leaf the dwarves from the Blue Mountains smoked. He’d been in a near-constant haze of it during the quest.

The figure turned at the sound of his voice, then stood up.

Bilbo glanced back at the tree. He’d never known dwarves to be talented with plants, certainly not enough to make a whole tree grow overnight. “W-Was this your doing? This tree— _ oh _ .”

The rest of his sentence was lost in a gasp as he turned back to the figure, who had stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight. 

And all Bilbo could do was stare, breath caught in his throat, as he took in the familiar face of Thorin Oakenshield.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

It couldn’t be.

Bilbo tried once, twice—he was unable to draw in breath. Thorin was  _ here _ , standing under an impossible tree in the middle of the Shire, not buried beneath the Lonely Mountain in a stone tomb.

The last time he had seen him had been the funeral. His face had been so pale, cleaned of blood and dirt, the wound on his forehead a faint red line. Thorin had looked eerily peaceful with his eyes closed and the Arkenstone upon his breast.

The dwarf standing before him was entirely different. Thorin’s face was slightly flushed with vitality, his vibrant eyes open and attentive. Gone was the cut on his brow and the hole in his chest that had taken his life. He was wearing the same armor and fur coat he’d worn the first time they’d met.

“Bilbo.”

His voice was calm, smooth and deep as ever, as he took a few steps forward. A gentle happiness lit up his gaze, though it was tinged with a bit of concern as well.

Perhaps that was because Bilbo could still not find within him the ability to breathe. He stood frozen, watching with wide eyes as Thorin neared him, until he was so close that he could have reached out and touched him if he’d wanted to. He most certainly did want to, but the part of him that wasn’t suspended in shock worried that if he moved, the spell would be broken and he would be left alone on the hilltop.

“Bilbo, are you well?” Thorin was the one to reach out first, his hand gently brushing against his arm—

_ Bilbo barely registered the weak pressure of Thorin’s gloved hand against his arm. His gaze was focused on the dark blood welling up from beneath his fingers. There was far too much of it, spilling out over his rent armor and staining Thorin’s beard as he coughed it up. They had to get a healer, quickly.  _

_ “I wish to part from you in friendship.” _

_ “No,” Bilbo gasped, his hands still pressed over the wound in Thorin’s chest. “No, you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to live.” _

_ “I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me...I was too blind to see.” He drew in a rattling breath, his voice ragged. “I’m so sorry that I have led you into such peril.” _

_ “No, no, I’m glad to have shared in all your perils, Thorin—each and every one of them. It’s far more than any Baggins deserves.” They were running out of time. There was too much he had yet to say and too little time to say it. Bilbo struggled through his next words, feeling as though his own heart would stop as Thorin coughed up more blood. “Please, don’t go. I—” _

_ “Farewell...” _

“Bilbo.”

Thorin was clasping both of his arms now, firmly but not enough to hurt. His touch was bracing, and Bilbo was finally able to take a shuddering breath as summer sunlight overtook the icy memory that had wrapped itself around his vision.

His next exhale managed to escape in the form of a word. “How—” He tried again. “How are you here? Y-You’re supposed to be…” Even after all these months, he still could not bring himself to say it.

His breaths were coming faster, shallower now, and none of them quite filled his lungs the way they should have. A vice of pain clamped around his head. Bilbo glanced up at the sunlit leaves above them, his vision blurry. Was he going mad?

Thorin moved one hand to his face, grounding him once more. “Breathe, Bilbo. It’s all right. Just breathe. Slowly, now.”

And slowly, he did. After a few minutes, Bilbo’s head cleared. He felt the numbness that had frozen his limbs begin to recede, and was able to reach up and wipe the tears from his eyes.

Shame ignited on his cheeks. Thorin was here, somehow, and the first thing he had done upon meeting him again was dissolve into a teary-eyed mess. He might as well have fainted like he had that first night, during the party in Bag End.

_ Pull yourself together _ . “Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just. You know. A bit of a shock.”

“You owe me no apologies, Bilbo.” Thorin’s gaze was soft as he looked into Bilbo’s eyes. One of Thorin’s hands was still resting on his jaw, the other loosely grasping his shoulder.

If Thorin could touch him, then that meant Bilbo could do the same. He reached out, tentatively, unsure where to put his hands, and rested them on his chest, just below his shoulders. The fur of his coat was soft, and beneath it, Bilbo could feel the warmth radiating from his body. It was all there, just below his fingertips, and so achingly  _ real _ .

He leaned forward then, whether from exhaustion or the undeniable pull Thorin had on him, he wasn’t sure, and pressed his forehead against his chest. Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s shoulders and pulled him closer. His chin came to rest on the crown of his head.

Bilbo felt as though he might cry again, though sorrow no longer had the same grip around his heart as it once had. No, it was the aching familiarity of being this close to Thorin, to have in his grasp what he had thought was lost forever, that renewed the tears in his eyes.

For how long they stood like that, Bilbo had no idea. But eventually the questions burning in the back of his mind grew painfully insistent, and so he gathered himself the best he could and pulled back.

“We need to talk.”

Thorin nodded, his expression sobering, and Bilbo led the way back into his house. He walked into the kitchen, hoping a cup of tea would set him to rights. “Sorry about the mess. I’m still trying to get everything back in order.”

He busied himself with heating up the water, half-afraid that when he turned around, there would be no one there. When he reached into the cabinet to grab a mug, he paused. “Er, would you like some as well? Tea?”

“No, thank you.” Thorin stood with his arms crossed, surveying the room.

“Are you sure? I could make you something to eat.” Bilbo gestured to the basket of food on the windowsill. The dozen questions clamoring to be asked informed him that these formalities weren’t necessary, but a part of him reasoned that it would be easier to simply treat Thorin as regular visitor, rather than worrying about the sheer madness of what was happening. “I’m sure you must be tired from...h-however you got here.”

“I don’t need anything to eat or drink. I’m dead.”

He nearly flinched at that. Thorin looked utterly calm as he spoke, something that Bilbo could not even begin to comprehend. 

It took him a moment to find his voice again. “Well, then. All right.” He turned back to the tea, needing something to do with his hands. “I suppose I don’t have to worry about any more dwarves raiding my pantry, if that’s the case.” The shakiness in his voice betrayed any attempt at humor.

“What happened to your home?” Thorin asked. “It was not this...barren last I saw it.”

“Oh. Well, I was gone for so long that everyone in Hobbiton eventually assumed I was dead and decided to auction off my things. I actually came back in the middle of it. Managed to save these,” he held up a handful of silver spoons, “among a few others things.”

“They stole your possessions?” His eyes narrowed.

“I forgot to lock my front door.” Bilbo shrugged. “Sort of left in a hurry that day.”

“Who was responsible for this?”

“Well…” He paused, noting Thorin’s clenched fists. “Grubb and Burrowes ran the auction. But I have a sneaking suspicion as to who set it up.” He glanced back at the silverware on his counter. Distantly, he marveled at how easily it was fall into normal conversation with him, despite his shock.

“Whoever is behind this will sorely regret their actions,” Thorin said, his voice slipping into the tone he would use right before commanding the rest of the Company to draw their weapons.

“That—That won’t be necessary,” Bilbo said, suddenly grateful for the lack of a sword at Thorin’s hip. “I’ll go around and ask for my things back. Might have to pay for some of it, but I’ll get it all back eventually.”

A fraction of the anger in Thorin’s gaze melted. “You should not have to buy back what was already yours.”

“No.” He took a sip of his tea. “You’re quite right about that. But sometimes you have to make do.”

At this, Thorin relaxed and nodded. He understood—possibly better than Bilbo ever would. It wasn’t as if a  _ dragon _ had barged into Bag End and stolen all his armchairs and silverware.

Even so, it bothered him to think that Thorin would be unhappy about the state of his house. Just because he couldn’t offer him tea or a hot meal didn’t mean he could be a bad host. Before Bilbo could stop himself, he said, “If it pleases you, then I will go and get some of my furniture back today.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, and Bilbo tried not to blush at his choice of words.

“That is, after I’ve had something to eat.” He walked over to his basket of food and pulled out the ingredients for a quick meal. “I won’t be able to take back much of anything on an empty stomach.”

“If I recall correctly, you faced down a dragon with nothing but two meals a day under your belt.” Thorin stepped closer, humor glinting in his eyes. “And hobbits are accustomed to six, are they not?”

“Seven, actually.” Bilbo began digging around for a knife. “And facing down a dragon is nothing compared to what I have to put up with from some of my cousins. Lobelia in particular is a real piece of work.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing you won’t be able to handle.”

Bilbo looked up, saw the gentle smile Thorin was giving him, and blushed for real this time.

* * *

 

They set off a little after noon. The sun was at its zenith, and Bilbo could feel its heat on the back of his neck.

“So, how did you get here, exactly?” he asked as they began walking down the path.

“I don’t know the exact details,” Thorin replied. “I was summoned from the Halls of Waiting. The next thing I remember is sitting beneath that tree.” He nodded back towards the oak on top of Bilbo’s house.

“I see.” It was a rather vague explanation, and it seemed Thorin didn’t know much more than Bilbo did about the situation. He did have a sneaking suspicion that the appearance of the tree had something to do with it, though he wasn’t too well versed in the rules and workings of magic. But he wasn’t inclined to question it further—Thorin was with him, and he was happy enough to simply accept that.

“Where are we going first?” Thorin asked.

“I figured I might as well get the worst over with today. We’re going to Lobelia’s house,” Bilbo said with a grimace. He’d spotted her on the path to Bag End when he’d first arrived, and had managed to rescue a handful of silver spoons from the pile of knick knacks in her arms. “I’ll try to figure out how many of my belongings she has, and then see how much I can leave with. She’s not going to give any of it up without a fight.”

“I never imagined hobbits as being…” Thorin tilted his head, as though trying to find the right word.

“We can be just as greedy and spiteful and dishonest as other races. Though we are less inclined to pick up steel weapons when those issues come to a head.”

Thorin scowled. “Instead they resort to robbery.”

“In extreme cases,” Bilbo said with a slight smile. “Words are the weapon of choice for most hobbits. And sometimes they can do more damage than a sword or a battle axe.”

A little ways down the road, two hobbit lasses were walking in the opposite direction. Bilbo eyed them apprehensively as they approached, unsure what their reaction would be to a dwarf walking beside him, but they paid them no mind, carrying on with their chatter as they drew nearer.

He relaxed, tucking his hands into his jacket. Perhaps it was expected of him by now, to be associating with dwarves. His calm turned to shock, however, as one of the lasses passed by him, and in the process walked  _ through  _ Thorin.

Both of them stopped talking and turned as he let out a sharp gasp. But when he cleared his throat and turned away, they resumed their conversation and moved on. Bilbo, however, stayed rooted to the spot, remembering distantly how Hamfast hadn’t seemed to realize that the tree above his house had grown there overnight. Whatever was happening here, he seemed to be the only one noticing that anything was different, and that didn’t sit well with him.

Thorin watched his expression, his posture relaxed, but the look in his eyes betrayed that he too had noticed what had occurred.

Feeling as though the ground beneath him had just violently shifted, Bilbo reached out for Thorin’s arm, as though to steady himself. The fabric of his sleeve was pliant in his grasp, and beneath it, he could feel the warmth of his skin. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Why am I the only one who can see and touch you?”

“Because I am here for you, and no one else.” Thorin searched his face for a moment longer, then said, “You’re wondering if you’ve gone mad.”

Bilbo nodded, the movement stiff and disjointed. His headache was starting to get worse.

“Trust yourself, Bilbo.” Thorin laid his hand over Bilbo’s, calloused fingers running over his skin. “I know for a fact that I am here with you, in spirit if nothing else. But only you can decide what to trust.”

That was the crux of the issue. Was it magic or madness that had returned Thorin to him? If it was the former, then Bilbo would be sure to ask Gandalf the next time he saw him what exactly was in the soil around Beorn’s house that produced such swift-growing acorns. If it was the latter...well. He could be hallucinating about worse things.

Whatever it was, it would do no good to stand and worry over it.

“Come on,” he said, sliding his hand from beneath Thorin’s with no small amount of reluctance. “We’ll try and figure this out later, but first I have to go get some of my furniture back.”

“Lead on, then.” Thorin gave him a slight, encouraging smile, and fell into stride next to him as they began walking again.

No, this was not bad at all, Bilbo concluded. He felt lighter and happier than he had in months, thanks to the presence of the dwarf beside him.

If this was madness, then he’d be quite content with losing his mind altogether.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented, left kudos, etc. I was smiling all week about it.  
> I'd like to know your thoughts about this chapter as well. Is there some magic at work here, or is Bilbo just going crazy?  
> Next chapter we will get a little Bilbo vs Lobelia action (place your bets now folks).  
> And yes, I'm also lindirs-gaze on tumblr. I'm sure you've seen my dumb memes floating around at least once :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

Bilbo rapped on the red front door of the Sackville-Baggins’s home with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. He took a small step back and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth slightly on his heels. He could not ignore the trepidation he felt at facing down his sharp-tongued cousin, but with Thorin at his shoulder, his courage was bolstered (though a small part of him still preferred another round with the spiders of Mirkwood).

The door swung open. Lobelia’s seemingly permanent frown deepened as she caught sight of her cousin. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“Hello, Lobelia.”

Her tone was almost as sharp as the crease between her brows. “You have some nerve showing up at my door. First you go running off with a group of  _ dwarves _ , disappear for over a year, and come back disturbing the peace just when we’ve started to get things back in order. I do not need nor do I want that kind of behavior on my doorstep.”

For a moment, Bilbo thought she was going to slam the door in his face, but she simply planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Well, I do apologize for disrupting your afternoon. And I won’t say I’m exactly thrilled to be here, either.” He gave her a stiff smile and glanced around. Lobelia’s house was smaller than his own, which was quite likely one reason she wanted it so much, and the overgrown weeds and too-tall fence made it appear even more cramped than it actually was. “But you have something of mine, I’m afraid, and I’d like to have it back.”

Lobelia tilted her chin up. “And what would that be, exactly?”

Bilbo suppressed a sigh. Clearly she wasn’t planning on making this easy for him. “My silverware. As I’m sure you recall, I took my spoons back from you yesterday, but they were part of a  _ set _ , and I know you have the rest.”

“Why should I give to you something that I purchased with my own coin? By all rights, it was  _ you _ who unjustly took  _ my _ property yesterday.”

Behind him, Thorin muttered a swear in Khuzdul. Bilbo felt a slight smile twitch on his lips and forced his face back into a neutral expression. “How much do you want for it?” he asked.

Lobelia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“If money is an issue for you, then I will buy back my silverware. Name a price.” Bilbo crossed his arms.

Her scowl reasserted itself. “You think you can throw a sack of coin at me and I’ll give up everything I got yesterday?”

“That’s usually how buying things works, yes.”

Lobelia clenched her jaw, looking again like she wanted to slam her front door shut, and ground out, “Sixty for the set.”

“Sixty? That’s insane. I won’t pay more than thirty.”

“It’s real silver. Fifty.”

“I’ve already got the spoons.”

“Forty-five.”

“Fine.”

Without another word, Lobelia turned on her heel and disappeared inside her house. 

“I see what you meant earlier,” Thorin said, causing Bilbo to turn. “About her being a...piece of work.” From the crease in his brow, it was clear Thorin had a different phrase in mind.

“Sometimes I wonder if she just enjoys getting on people’s nerves.” Bilbo sighed.

Thorin turned his attention to the ground. “She had your table, too.”

Bilbo followed his gaze and found twin scuff marks in the dirt, which were of a width apart suspiciously similar to that of the legs of his kitchen table. “Well, what do you know?”

Lobelia returned a moment later with a bag full of his missing utensils. Wordlessly, she thrust it at him as one would a sack of rotten fruit.

“Thank you.” Bilbo accepted it, took out his coin purse, and paid her the proper amount. 

He might have felt irked at spending so much, especially for his own things, but for the chest of gold he’d brought back from his journey. A few of the dwarves had stashed it away in the trolls’ cave for later, but they hardly had use for it now that Erebor had been reclaimed. 

“One more thing,” he said before she could close the door. “My kitchen table.”

“What of it?”

He resisted the urge to rub his temples. His headache was returning with a vengeance. “May I have it back?”

Lobelia crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Who told you about the table?”

“Well, you just did. And there’s these.” Bilbo gestured to the scuff marks in the dirt. 

Her face flushed and she stepped forward. Lobelia was taller than him, if only by a few inches, but Bilbo did not back down. “I’ll not have you turn my home into a marketplace, Bilbo Baggins.”

At the intrusion of his physical space, Bilbo felt the same rush of adrenaline that appeared right before stabbing a spider or riding a barrel down a waterfall, and before he could stop himself, he said, “I am only asking for my table. I know you probably have a dozen other things from  _ my _ house stashed away in there, and you’re lucky I’m not in the mood to barge in there and take back what you stole. Give me a price for my kitchen table, I will pay it, and then we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

Lobelia stood there, her mouth moving soundlessly. Bilbo could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and wondered if he had crossed a line. He’d never spoken to his cousin in such a manner before. Though that sort of thing didn’t seem so ludicrous after he had faced down a group of bloodthirsty orcs or stubborn elves who would not have given a second thought to good manners.

“Two hundred for the table,” Lobelia said after a moment, her voice slightly strained.

“And the chairs.”

“I’m not helping you move it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Bilbo said with a sarcastic smile, all pretense of politeness gone.

Moving stiffly, Lobelia disappeared into her house for a second time.

His shoulders fell as Bilbo let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A sudden wave of exhaustion swept through his body. He turned back to Thorin, who was looking at him with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked, feeling his heartbeat speed up again. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Thorin visibly swallowed and lowered his gaze. “It’s nothing. I’ve just never seen you speak so...forcefully.”

“Well, I was hardly going to let her walk all over me.”

“No, you’re quite right,” Thorin said. “It seems you can be rather intimidating when you want to be.” But the small smile on his lips indicated that he did not seem to think that was a bad thing at all.

“Oh. Um.” Heat flared up his neck and onto his face. Bilbo cleared his throat, his mouth dry all of a sudden. 

He was saved from having to further ponder Thorin’s statement when Otho Sackville-Baggins, Lobelia’s husband, came out and asked for help in moving the table outside.

Bilbo followed him into the house, hoping his face wasn’t too red.

* * *

 

“Well...this is a problem.”

Bilbo and Thorin stood on the path outside the Sackville-Baggins’s house with Bilbo’s kitchen table and chairs. When Lobelia had refused to help him move the furniture back to his house, Bilbo had been too worked up to consider the implications of that statement. Now that he was standing outside with far too much furniture for one hobbit to carry, he was beginning to regret his lack of forethought.

“I’ll admit, I did not think this far ahead.” He braced one hand on the edge of the table, still feeling a bit exhausted and dizzy as well. The day really was quite hot. 

“Yes, that much is evident.”

Bilbo looked up and scowled upon seeing Thorin’s teasing smile. “Could you not help me carry this?”

Thorin spread his hands apologetically. “I would, believe me. But I’m not physically here.”

“Right.” Inconvenient as that was, Bilbo imagined it would give the other hobbits quite a shock if they saw what would appear to them to be floating furniture trailing after him. 

His salvation came in the form of a familiar hobbit cresting the hill a little farther down the road.

“Oi, Mister Bilbo! You look like you could use some help.” Hamfast grinned as he approached.

“Yes, that would be very much appreciated,” Bilbo said, shoulders sagging with relief.

“Got all this back from old Lobelia, did you?” He nodded towards the drawn curtains of one of the windows. “I’d imagine she didn’t let it go without a fight.”

“I had to, ah, buy it back,” Bilbo said with a slight grimace. “But at least I won’t be eating any more meals standing up.”

“Let’s see…” Hamfast began stacking the chairs on top of the table, with the legs facing up. “I think we can carry all this back in one trip.”

Bilbo caught on and began moving the chairs as well. “Yes, that should work.”

“Who is this?” Thorin asked, moving up beside him.

“My gardner,” Bilbo replied without thinking.

Hamfast looked up. “Yes, Mister Bilbo?”

He mentally kicked himself. “I…”  _ Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you, Hamfast, I was talking to the ghost of a dwarf king.  _ “I appreciate your help.”

Thorin laughed. “Sorry.”

And Bilbo was so enamored by the sound of Thorin’s laughter that he could not bring himself to feel annoyed. 

Bag End was not too far away, but due to the weight of their load and the numerous breaks they took along the way, it was nearly half an hour later that Bilbo and Hamfast finally arrived at their destination.

The summer heat was uncomfortably intense, and it was with no small amount of relief that Bilbo set down his end of the table in front of Bag End and dragged his wrist across his forehead. A smattering of white spots danced in his vision.

“...turn it sideways to get it through the door, and then move the chairs in afterwards.”

Bilbo shook his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Oh, I was just sayin’ how we should…” Hamfast paused in taking the chairs off the table and frowned. “Are you feelin’ all right, Mister Bilbo?”

“I’m fine. I-It’s just the heat.” He forced a smile. “Let’s get this table inside.”

On the contrary, he was shaking and dizzy and moving a piece of heavy furniture was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. Bilbo straightened up, ignoring the protest of his aching muscles. They were almost done.

He imagined wrestling a troll would be less of an arduous task than carrying the table the short distance from his front door to his kitchen. It seemed as though his entire journey through Mirkwood had taken half the time he spent making the simple journey across his house. But if there was one thing traveling with dwarves had taught him, it was to persevere.

In the end, Bilbo made it and helped Hamfast move the table to its original position. He leaned one hand against the surface, trying his utmost to keep himself upright.

Hamfast went to go retrieve the chairs from outside, and Bilbo made to follow, but found his path blocked by a wall of armor and fur. Thorin lifted one hand towards his face, his brow furrowed.

“What are you…” The rest of his sentence dissolved in a sigh as Thorin placed his palm against Bilbo’s forehead. His skin was blessedly cool against his heated brow, but despite his relief, he couldn’t help the slight chill that passed through him at the thought. Thorin’s skin wasn’t supposed to be cold. Just thinking about it brought back the painful reminder that he was—

“You’re burning up,” Thorin said with a frown, breaking him from his thoughts. “You should take a rest.”

“We’re almost done. I’ll be fine,” Bilbo said, stepping around him and making for the front door. He hadn’t made it two steps before a wave of dizziness made the whole room spin. “All right, maybe I’ll just…” He sank down against the wall, letting out a slow breath.

Thorin was at his side in an instant. “Do you feel ill?” 

He placed one of his hands on the back of Bilbo’s neck, and he felt his eyes slide closed. He really was quite hot…

“Keep your eyes open.” Thorin’s tone was insistent, and Bilbo obeyed after a moment of hazy consideration. “You’re sick. You need a healer.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a moment. You needn’t worry about me.”

“Mister Bilbo?”

He clamped his mouth shut, wondering how much Hamfast had heard, though he couldn’t bring himself to care very much as an achy heat prickled just beneath his skin.

“Oh, dear.” Hamfast knelt down on the other side of him. “I’ll go get a healer.” He stood up and rushed from the room.

“Hang in there, Bilbo.” Thorin moved his hand to his jaw, gently tilting his head up as Bilbo began to nod off again. “You’ll be able to rest soon. Just keep your eyes open, all right?”

“Hmm.” He nodded to punctuate his agreement (at what, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure), but the movement only served to aggravate his headache.

The moments afterward were a blur. Hamfast returned with the healer, a lass named Hanna, who coaxed him into drinking some water. After that, the two hobbits managed to help him into his bedroom and left him to rest.

Bilbo had been grateful for something to cool him down, but he soon regretted that as shivers racked his body. Even with the covers pulled up to his chin, he could not seem to shake the chill that had wrapped itself around him.

He lay there for some time—it could have been hours or days, shivering and aching and trying to swallow against the dryness in his throat. Occasionally he heard Thorin’s voice, though his muddled mind was unable to make out the words being spoken to him.

When Bilbo finally found sleep, he dreamed of winter and death.

It came in terrifying flashes of snow and blood and a withered land where nothing would grow. The images, fractured as they were, somehow terrified him just as much as the real memories he had of the battle.

When his dreams finally drifted into coherence, Bilbo found himself running. He wasn’t being pursued—no, he was trying to reach something.

_ Please, Eru, let me find him in time _ .

The biting wind stung his exposed skin but he pushed himself to go faster. If he could stop it before it happened, then he could change everything. There was still time to save him.

Pain knifed into his temple as the handle of an orcish weapon struck his head. Bilbo wanted to cry out, wanted to fight it, wanted just the tiniest chance to reach him in time and stop what he knew would happen next.

But all he could do was fall, helpless, as darkness descended over his vision.

When Bilbo finally woke, his skin covered in sweat and his heart pounding madly, the room was dark, and he was alone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 rt = 1 get well card for Bilbo  
> And thanks to everyone who commented/left kudos. I absolutely love hearing what you all have to say!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

“Thorin?”

Bilbo winced at the weak rasp of his voice. He body still ached and his throat was dry, but his head had cleared somewhat, and it seemed his fever had subsided.

With clumsy fingers, he reached for the cup of water on his bedside table and drank, wincing at the stale taste. How long had he been asleep? He set the cup down, and the sharp sound of the empty container against the table nearly made him flinch.

“Thorin?” he called again, his voice steadier this time.

No response.

Bilbo sat up, his heart thumping almost painfully in his chest. He threw the covers aside and stood up, bracing himself against the edge of the bed as a wave of dizziness passed over him.

He walked out of the bedroom and through the house silently, not daring to call out again. Patches of moonlight reflected off the floor and cast a gray, still glow over the walls. The house was silent as stone.

Bilbo felt his insides turn to ice. Since he had returned, Thorin had not left his side once. He didn’t know where else the dwarf would be.

A burning lump appeared in his throat, and he blinked rapidly, trying to slow his breathing. He couldn’t do this again.

Just as he had given up hope, he walked into the living room and froze at the sight of a dark-haired figure standing by the window.

Thorin must have heard him, though he didn’t remember making a sound, because he turned and immediately made his way toward him.

“Bilbo. You’re awake, thank Mahal.” He grasped his upper arms, as though afraid he would fall. “I heard you speak, but you’ve been talking in your sleep lately.”

He took a couple more deep breaths to steady himself, relief making his ears ring. “It’s all right.” Thorin was still here, after all. “H-How long was I asleep?”

“You were…” His mouth set in a flat line. “The fever subsided after a couple days. Your gardener and the healer took care of you during that time.” A small smile graced his lips. “They’re good people, the two of them.”

Bilbo nodded. Before he could stop himself, he reached up and placed a hand on Thorin’s arm in what he hoped was a casual movement. A tiny, irrational part of him wanted to check that Thorin was indeed still there.

“Something troubles you.” In the light of the moon shining through the window, Thorin’s eyes carried a silvery glint, making him look hauntingly beautiful.

“I was afraid you’d gone,” Bilbo said, and tried to laugh off his statement, though it came as more of a grimace as his sore throat protested.

“No.” Thorin’s brow furrowed, his gaze steady with silent promise. “I would never leave you in such a vulnerable state. I will be here as long as you need me.”

His words were enough to quiet Bilbo’s fears. He relaxed, drawing in a deep breath as he considered the implications of his promise. Thorin could stay, and there was no quest or kingdom or danger to disrupt that arrangement.

The hopeful smile creeping onto his face faltered as he noticed the tension in Thorin’s posture. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” He turned his head slightly to the side, as if to physically wave away Bilbo’s concerns.

He nearly brought his free hand up to rest against the dwarf’s cheek, but caught himself at the last moment. “Thorin. I shared with you what was troubling me, and I’d like you to do the same.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Thorin turned to face him once more. “It was...distressing to see you ill and to know that I could do nothing to help you.” His gaze fell to the floorboards. “I am truly sorry I could do so little to aid you in your time of need.”

“No.” Bilbo straightened. “No, Thorin, that is not something you need to apologize for. Hamfast was there, and he got me a healer. And I have lived on my own for a great many years now. If I were to be defeated by a little head cold, that is testament to my own failings, not yours.” He leaned closer, looking him in the eye. “And I won’t have you blaming yourself for something you cannot help.”

No, Thorin certainly did not owe him anything in the way of caretaking, especially after Bilbo had failed to protect him during the battle. 

“You have done more than enough for me simply by being here,” he continued. The tenderness in Thorin’s eyes along with their proximity was enough to make his heart pound madly, but Bilbo kept talking. “You have made me happier, Thorin, than I have been in a very long time. And I wouldn’t trade having you with me for the world.”

In that moment, an unspoken agreement seemed to pass between the two of them. One of Thorin’s hand came up to rest on the back of his neck, tentatively pulling him closer. Bilbo tilted his head up at the same time Thorin leaned in, and when their lips met, he felt a feverish heat flush anew through his body.

He responded to the kiss eagerly, reaching up to grasp Thorin’s shoulders and pull him closer as Thorin’s free arm wound around his back. For a few blissful moments, the dark quiet of the room fell away and Bilbo’s senses were consumed by the soft heat of Thorin’s mouth against his own, the roughness of his beard against his skin, the strength of his arms as they held him close.

Far too soon for his liking, they broke apart and Thorin rested his forehead against Bilbo’s, his breath leaving a ghost of tender warmth against his lips. Bilbo reached up, running his fingertips along Thorin’s neck, across his jaw, into the thick tangle of his dark hair. 

As he drifted down from his euphoria, his exhaustion and soreness returned. His legs were beginning to tremble from standing so long. Happy as he was, he still was not completely recovered from his illness. 

Thorin seemed to realize this, and reluctantly released him. “You should get some rest. Come.”

They walked back to the bedroom together. Thorin helped him back into bed, but Bilbo put a hand on his arm before he could go.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked. Thorin tilted his head as if to say,  _ Didn’t we already establish that?  _ Bilbo blushed and tried to amend his question. “I meant here.” He patted the space on the bed next to where he was sitting. “If that’s—if you’re…”

“I’ll stay.” Thorin shed his coat, armor, and boots and climbed onto the bed next to Bilbo. Though the Baggins part of him argued that this was crossing quite a few thresholds, especially for one night, something felt decidedly  _ right _ about pulling the covers back and watching Thorin settle himself on the pillow next to his own. He’d never felt that his bed was empty before, but feeling the dwarf’s presence beside him brought an undeniable feeling of completeness. 

They laid side by side for a while, listening to the crickets outside.

Eventually the question nagging at the back of his mind pressed itself onto his tongue, and Bilbo shifted so he was facing Thorin. “I won’t say I’m not happy with this turn of events, but I want to make sure…” He trailed off as Thorin turned to face him. “Because, you know, this whole, um,  _ thing _ is rather new to me—new to us both, in fact—I just want to make sure I’ve got all the details right, because, um…”

“Speak your mind, Bilbo.”

“I-Is this only happening because I want it to?”

Thorin’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“Well.” Now that he thought about it further, it was a rather silly idea, but he had already brought it up, and he knew Thorin would not allow him to dismiss the topic. “Earlier you said that you were called here for  _ me _ , specifically, and I’m assuming it was you who appeared because there is no one in the world who I would rather see. You are here because I wished for it, and now…”

“You’re wondering if this is too good to be true. If my feelings for you are genuine.” There was no judgement in Thorin’s tone, but hearing the words out loud made shame writhe in his stomach.

Bilbo sighed, struggling to find a way to express his doubts without sounding like an absolute fool. “I mean, are these feelings...d-did you have them before?”

“Yes. I fell in love with you long before I died.” A hint of sorrow entered his gaze.

At those words, Bilbo felt as though someone had taken hold of his heart and squeezed. “Oh.” And suddenly he felt the chill of grief all over again.

Sensing this, Thorin smiled softly and said, “I believe the exact moment I realized was in Lake-town. We had just been taken by the master’s guards, and you stepped forward and spoke up for me.”

Bilbo remembered that night well enough—the gentle snowfall, the curious crowd of men and women, the light of the torches against Thorin’s hair. Speaking up on his behalf had been an impulsive move on his part, but he’d meant every word.

“What you said made me realize that I had underestimated you once again. You had already proven your bravery, your resourcefulness, but it takes still greater courage to stand with another in the face of scrutiny. You are a true and loyal friend, Bilbo, and I never should have doubted you.”

It was difficult to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. “I...That is very kind of you to say.” 

“I only wish I could have had more time to express how I felt,” Thorin continued. “When I grew sick, I wasted valuable time focusing on the wrong things. I nearly destroyed everything between us.”

The pain in his voice was raw and ragged, and Bilbo could not stop himself from closing the distance between them and pressing their foreheads together as Thorin had done earlier. “Well, we have time now, to do and say everything we couldn’t before. And I have already forgiven you for everything that happened when you were sick, so don’t you go feeling guilty about that either.”

Thorin smiled at that, his eyes shining like gemstones inches from Bilbo’s own. “Of course. We have time.” He placed one hand on the small of his back and pulled him closer. “But for now—-”

“Yes, yes, I know. I need to rest.” Bilbo shifted so his head was against Thorin’s chest and let out a contented sigh. After a moment, he lifted it again. “I can’t get you sick, can I?”

“No.” Thorin placed one hand on the back of his head, coaxing it back into its original position. “Don’t worry about me. Get some sleep.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the rumble of Thorin’s voice against his cheek, and within moments he had drifted off.

And for the first time in months, Bilbo slept without nightmares.

* * *

 

Beams of golden light eventually drew him from his slumber. Bilbo let out a sound that was a mixture of a groan and a sigh and made to stretch...only to realize that it would be quite impossible to move without disturbing the body next to him.

_ Thorin _ . His arms were still wrapped around him, his chest rising and falling evenly as he slept. Bilbo smiled to himself and relaxed, closing his eyes again. They would have to get up eventually, but for now he was content to lie here and enjoy the peace.

Their conversation from the previous night came back in pieces, and Bilbo felt his heartbeat speed up a little as the memories swirled around his head. Everything had been laid bare between them. Though their situation was far from perfect, and he still wasn’t sure what to make of it all, a great deal of the pain that had wrapped itself around his heart had dissipated, and in its place was a strange and slightly overwhelming sense of freedom.

Bilbo had never really fit in with the other hobbits. There had always been the contradiction of his lineage—the staid propriety of the Baggins family at odds with the adventurous curiosity of the Tooks—that left him feeling as if he was in a strange in-between that would leave him dissatisfied either way. He had been unsure what to think of himself, and the other hobbits had been unsure as well, and that had made them wary.

Though he hadn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms when the Company had first come through his door, traveling with them had been radically different. The dwarves cared little for his family heritage. He’d soon come to realize that they liked him for his good humor and storytelling and loyalty towards their cause. More than that, they had made no secret of their true feelings, and when they had finally shown liking towards him, he had known it to be genuine. Being with the Company had allowed him to somewhat find his footing.

Bilbo occasionally wondered if he should have stayed with his friends in Erebor. He would have been welcome, would have been surrounded by people who enjoyed his company.

But the thought of living each day under the shadow of loss, of seeing Thorin memorialized and turned into a legacy carved into stone—unreachable and sealed away in the past—had been unbearable. He hadn’t been able to fathom living each day with the reminder of what he had lost.

It seemed now, with Thorin’s arms encircling him and one strand of dark hair tickling his chin, that Bilbo had finally found a middle ground of sorts, one where he belonged. He was not alone, nor was he grieving. If the other hobbits thought him mad, he would let them. He would live the rest of his life without apology or restraint, now that he had nothing holding him back.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this was never going to be a slow burn (partially because I have no self control and partially because...well, you'll see). I'm so happy and grateful for the response so far, and keep those theories coming! I love hearing what you have to say!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

Bilbo tapped the end of his quill against the paper, resting his chin on one palm. He’d gotten all the way up to his retelling of their mishap in the Trollshaws when his inspiration had ground to a halt. He found himself questioning each detail of the event and how exactly to go about telling it, or whether to include certain parts (such as him getting  _ sneezed _ on by a troll).

And this, he realized, was the easy part. He wasn’t sure at all how he would go about writing down such events as his confrontation with Thorin on the wall, or the battle, or anything that had happened afterwards. He wasn’t certain he could bring himself to relive that part of the journey.

Then there were the extraordinary events that had occurred upon his return to the Shire. Even though he was done with his adventure, and there was no more danger to be found, wasn’t that still part of the story? When, exactly, did all of it end?

Bilbo was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Thorin had entered his study until a strand of dark hair tickled his cheek as the dwarf leaned forward to peer over his shoulder.

“What is this?”

“Nothing!” Bilbo closed the book, heat flaring up onto his cheeks. “I was just...writing.”

“About trolls?” Thorin moved around him and braced one hand on the desk, one eyebrow arching in amusement. “An interesting subject.”

“Very interesting, indeed,” Bilbo said, his lips twitching against his will. It really wasn’t fair, he contemplated, that Thorin was so attractive—it was making any form of obstinance on his part rather difficult. “All right, fine. I was writing my account of the quest.” He settled one hand protectively over the book. “But you can’t read it just yet.”

“And why is that?” His brows lowered, though it did nothing to diminish the amusement in his eyes. “I was there too, remember? I doubt you have written anything that would surprise me.”

“But it’s not done yet,” Bilbo said. “I will let you see once I have finished, and not before.” Though at what point he  _ would _ be done was up for debate.

“Very well.” Thorin smiled and leaned closer. “I look forward to reading it.”

Bilbo tilted his head up and accepted the kiss, warmth flooding his body. It had been over a month since he had reunited with Thorin, and there had been many more kisses in between then and now, yet he still couldn’t quite get used to the sensation.

When they broke apart, Bilbo stood up and stretched. His writing could wait for now. “I think I fancy a smoke outside. Would you like to join me?”

“Of course.” Thorin linked arms with him, and they left the study together.

Bag End really had been built for more than one person, Bilbo realized as they walked through the halls together. There was not only the fact that it was bigger, but the little details—the even number of chairs and pillows and coat pegs, the shelves and pantry that beckoned for shared enjoyment. His father had built the house as a wedding gift for his mother, with the intention of spending the rest of his life with her there. After their passing, Bilbo had attributed the echoing emptiness in its rooms to grief. But now, living here with Thorin, he noticed the house didn’t feel as vacant as it once had.

Though that could possibly be attributed to the return of the majority of his furniture as well. After a month of knocking on doors, assuring people that he was, in fact, not dead, and handing over more coin than he would have liked, Bilbo had finally returned Bag End to its former furnished state.

Bilbo was quite literally knocked out of his thoughts as he turned the corner into the entrance hall and bumped into a small table. That was a piece he had retrieved only a few days ago, and it still surprised him every now and then.

“Ouch.” He winced and rubbed his hip. “I’m still trying to get used to everything being where it’s supposed to be.”

“Careful, Master Burglar.” Thorin grinned and used his grip on Bilbo’s arm to pull him closer. “It seems you’re losing your touch.”

“Well, it’s a bit difficult to be stealthier than a  _ ghost _ ,” Bilbo said, prodding him with his elbow.

With his return, Thorin had shown a new side of himself. With no kingdom to run, no people to lead, and no dragons or orcs to worry about, this Thorin smiled more easily and was quicker to humor. The lines of tension on his shoulders and between his brows had faded somewhat.

And though Bilbo was overjoyed with this change, he still caught Thorin sometimes with a strange, almost melancholy look in his eyes. At times it seemed he didn’t know what to do with himself, and Bilbo was unsure whether to attribute it to his lack of responsibility or his inability to truly interact with the world of the living.

The frosty guilt that began to creep over his gut at the thought quickly thawed as they stepped out into the sunlight. Summer was in full swing, and the smell of fresh grass and fresh fruit soon lifted his spirits.

They took a seat under the oak tree and lit their pipes, sending smoke rings up into the green-leaved boughs and conversing idly.

“So, this is how you all live your lives in the Shire,” Thorin said, his gaze wandering over the hobbits shopping at the market, strolling along the paths, tending to their gardens. 

“How do you mean?”

“You’ve no worries about famine or war.”

“Well, yes, those are rather drastic things to worry about,” Bilbo said, then remembered who he was talking to. “I mean...well. I suppose we’re all rather removed from any risk of danger. And when we are not eating food, many hobbits are either growing or making it.”

“The food I can understand,” Thorin said. “But you’ve no defenses. In all my time I’ve spent passing through the Shire or living here now, I’ve never seen a single guard.”

“Some of the folk near the Brandywine know how to use weapons—small bows and such. And the rangers in the north lend a hand in protecting the Shire from time to time.” Bilbo reached over and squeezed Thorin’s arm. “You needn’t worry. The Shire hasn’t been attacked since the Fell Winter, and that was decades ago.”

“I remember that winter,” Thorin said, the lines on his face hardening as his gaze was lost to memory. “But I had no idea the Shire had been attacked.”

“The river froze over, and orcs and wolves crossed it and attacked. And we actually did run short on food that year, because the cold killed most of the crops.” Bilbo tapped the stem of his pipe against his knee, his own memories swirling to the forefront of his mind. “I wasn’t even of age then, but I still remember it.” 

He remembered the cold, and the hunger, and the numb shock of finding out how many hobbits had died years before their time, whether from illness or between the jaws of a wolf. One day, the snow had been so bad that those who had dared to venture out hadn’t been able to find their way through the storm. A few hobbits had died next to their homes without knowing where they were.

“Even after all of that, I don’t think I ever truly appreciated how lucky I am to live here until I met you and the rest of the Company. How lucky I am to...to not have to worry about those things.”

A moment after he’d said this, Bilbo thought his words might have come off as insensitive, but when Thorin spoke, it was without resentment. “You are indeed fortunate. And you chose to come with me and my Company anyway.”

“Well.” Bilbo smiled, a bit of red coloring his cheeks. “I had no idea what I was getting into, then. And I did try to leave at one point.”

“You came back.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Bilbo sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head against Thorin’s shoulder. Despite himself, he had come to care for the dwarves by the time they had reached the Misty Mountains, and it was that caring that had spurred him on into danger to help them reclaim their home.

At times, Bilbo wondered what would he would do if he could go back and make that choice again. Had he turned away that night and made his way back to Rivendell, he would never have made lifelong friends of Bofur, Balin, and the rest. He would have never seen the wonders that lay east of the Misty Mountains, or fallen in love with Thorin.

Then again, if he had turned back, he would have been spared the pain of having to leave it all behind.

All things considered, Bilbo was a creature of comfort, and he much preferred sitting here in the shade with a pipe in hand to battling orcs. There was no power in the world that would allow him to change what had already happened, so he would have to be content with what he had.

* * *

 

They lingered under the tree for another hour or so, until the summer heat (and Bilbo’s stomach) prompted them to return indoors.

On his way back inside, Bilbo spotted Hamfast leaving his garden and waved to him.

“Garden’s comin’ along quite nicely, Mister Bilbo!” Hamfast walked up to the fence, taking off his hat so he could scratch at the top of his head. “Rather fortunate, all things considered…”

Bilbo tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, I’m not sure what to make of it.” Hamfast replaced his hat, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Never seen something like this happen before.”

He felt his brow furrow. Hamfast rarely frowned, and if he was doing it now, it meant something was wrong. Though, he reminded himself, whatever was the matter could hardly be more dangerous than a fallen tree or a loose herd of goats. “What happened?”

“Eh…” Hamfast rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment. “Well, it’s really better if you come see for yourself.”

Now Bilbo was more intrigued than anything, though he couldn’t ignore the small seed of worry that went along with it. “Lead the way, then.”

He followed Hamfast down the path, with Thorin close behind.

“Do you have any idea what the problem could be?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, then caught himself at the last second and simply shook his head. They would find out soon enough.

Hamfast led them the short distance to his own home, then round back. As soon as the garden came into view, Bilbo realized what was wrong, and let out a small, “Oh.”

His first thought was that some naughty group of tweens had procured a ridiculous amount of ink and dumped it all over the garden. A large portion of it had been stained a deep black. But as he looked closer, he realized it wasn’t only the color that had changed. Only the vaguest shapes of vegetables and leaves remained, and it had all wilted against the pitch-colored soil in a miserable heap.

“My best guess is that it’s some sort of rot, but…” Hamfast trailed off and cleared his throat. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The plants around the affected area were brown and drooping, and seemed to be on their way to ending up like their neighbors. Bilbo stepped into the garden and crouched down, gingerly touching a blackened lump that could have been a tomato once. The surface yielded slightly to the pressure of his finger, though it seemed much more dry than even a rotten fruit should be.

The soil, too, was almost ash-like in consistency. It reminded him immediately of the earth around the Lonely Mountain, and how the whole land had been scorched by dragon fire. He knew in that moment that nothing would be growing here for many years.

Thorin knelt down next to him, and Bilbo turned to shoot him a questioning glance.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Thorin said. “Even when Smaug set fire to the area around the mountain, it was clear that the plants had been burned. These just look...dead.”

Bilbo frowned and stood up, turning back to Hamfast. “I’m so sorry, Hamfast. This is terrible.”

“Aye,” the hobbit nodded, then cleared his throat again. “Strangest thing, too, is there was no warnin’ sign of it. Yesterday the whole lot was healthy. It’s as if it all happened overnight.”

“Overnight?” Bilbo lifted his gaze to the silhouette of the tree upon Bag End. A streak of uneasiness churned in his gut. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything strange yesterday? Plant anything new?”

“No.” Hamfast planted his hands on his hips and surveyed his garden for what must have been the twentieth time that day, though Bilbo could see in his eyes that he was still at a loss. “Highly irregular, all of it.”

“Very irregular, indeed.” Bilbo turned back to the garden and copied his pose. The whole thing would have to be dug up, and hopefully it wouldn’t spread anywhere else. If such a rot ended up in their crops, the whole community would have a serious problem on their hands.

“Well…” Hamfast straightened up and rolled his shoulders. “I don’t mean to be layin’ any of my problems on you, Mister Bilbo. Thanks for comin’ down and takin’ a look, though.”

“We could dump this all by the gully once we dig it up.”

“What’s that, Mister Bilbo?”

“The gully,” he repeated. “Northwest of here. That’s the least likely location for it to spread to somewhere else.” 

The gully was an unusual feature of Hobbiton, and quite visibly so—nothing grew there. It was all worn gray rock, and had once been the site of a creek that had long since dried up. It wasn’t very close by, but it would have to do. 

“Oh.” Hamfast blinked a couple times, then seemed to recover. “Right, then. Old Will down the street borrowed my wheelbarrow, so I’ll get it back from him and see if he’ll lend a hand.” Hamfast set off towards the road.

Bilbo turned back to Thorin, who was staring at the blackened mess with a distant gaze. “Do you think…” He was almost afraid to ask, but then again it was only an idea. “Do you think this could have something to do with the tree?”

Thorin met his eyes, his expression indecipherable. “You think this was caused by magic?”

“Well, something this sudden…” Bilbo gestured at the blackened mess with one hand as though the movement would convey what his words could not.

“That, or it could have been deliberately done. Does Hamfast have any enemies? Someone who would want to cause him harm?” Thorin stepped back and surveyed the area once more, as if looking for a trace of this unknown perpetrator.

“Enemies?” Bilbo almost laughed at the idea before remembering that Thorin had lived in a world quite different from his own. “Well, no. I mean, he’s never quite gotten along with Sandyman the miller, but…” He shook his head. “Even the most hostile of rivalries would never result in something like this.”

If someone had done this intentionally, they would have to be quite cruel—and have access to whatever magic or substance had caused this level of rot. Now that he thought about it, if it was magic, Bilbo had a hard time believing that it could be the same kind that had caused the tree to flourish above his house. How could a power capable of causing life and happiness bring about death and misery as well?

The comforting weight of Thorin’s hand on his shoulder lifted Bilbo from his thoughts.

“We’ll find the cause of this,” he said. “And make sure it does not happen to anyone else.”

A slight smile lifted Bilbo’s lips. Even without a kingdom to rule, it appeared Thorin had not yet lost his sense of responsibility for the wellbeing of others.

Shortly afterwards, Hamfast returned with Will and his wheelbarrow, and they set to the arduous task of cleaning up the garden. The rotten vegetables were not particularly difficult to remove, though once disturbed they gave off an unsettling sickly odor. It took them about five trips to the gully to clear up the whole mess, and the sun was well on its way to the western horizon by the time they finished.

“Thanks to the both of you,” Hamfast said, wiping his forehead and smearing some of the blackened soil onto his skin. “Truly appreciate it.”

“Always glad to help,” Will said, going to tuck his hands into his suspenders before realizing how filthy they were, and choosing instead to let them hang at his sides.

“It was no trouble, really,” Bilbo said, glancing at his own stained palms. They had used shovels to load the wheelbarrow, but with its fine consistency, the soil had had a tendency to get absolutely everywhere, so none of them were close to what would be considered clean.

“How would you both like to stay for dinner? I’m sure you both must be starvin’ after workin’ for so long,” Hamfast said.

Will grinned. “I could never turn down Bell Gamgee’s cooking.” 

“Well…” Bilbo faltered as Hamfast turned to him expectantly. Hungry as he was, all he really wanted at the moment was to climb into a hot bath, get himself clean, and relax for a while. “I should really get washed up,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m in no state to sit at a dinner table.”

“You could use our bath,” Hamfast said.

“Really, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” Bilbo resisted the urge to shove his hands into his pockets. Thorin had returned to Bag End once they had started to work, and Bilbo suspected it was because he resented not being able to help. That was something they needed to talk about, and he would hardly feel comfortable leaving him alone because he had been invited to dinner.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Hamfast said, the slightest of furrows in his brow. “I thought you’d might like some company since—well.” He stopped himself in the middle of his sentence, but the implication still hung in the air. Will shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“Since I live alone?” Bilbo finished for him, his voice a tad sharper than he’d intended. That was hardly the case anymore, but he couldn’t tell them that. “I assure you, I am quite content with that arrangement. It was never a problem before I went...away, and it is most certainly not an issue now. I’ll thank you to let me handle my own business.”

And before he could scold himself for his harsh words, or apologize for them, or even begin to ponder why he had said them in the first place, Bilbo had already turned on his heel and marched back towards his house.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens! Any ideas as to who/what ruined poor Hamfast's garden?  
> So this is officially the point where the story picks up and gets a little darker, though hopefully not too dark. We'll see...  
> Thanks for all the comments so far, I love hearing what you all think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Bilbo was doing the dishes one afternoon when he found himself humming a familiar tune. He shook his head and smiled to himself. To this day, it was still a wonder to him that the dwarves, who were hardly known for being graceful creatures, had managed to toss his dishware around without cracking a single plate.

“What’s that song you’re humming?”

In his surprise, Bilbo nearly dropped the mug he was washing. He still wasn’t quite used to Thorin moving so stealthily around his house—it seemed ghosts did not tend to create footsteps.

“My apologies.” Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist and placed a light kiss on the side of his neck. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“That’s quite all right,” Bilbo said, momentarily distracted by Thorin’s solid presence pressed against his back. “And as for that song, it’s the one the dwarves were singing in my house just before you arrived. Did no one tell you about that?” He dried the mug in his hands and turned around so he could give Thorin his full attention. 

“No.” Thorin shifted his grip so Bilbo could wrap his arms loosely around him as well. The corners of his lips tilted up. “Only that you were quite distressed to have so many unexpected guests in your home.”

“ _ Distressed _ is one way to put it,” Bilbo said with a wry smirk as he thought back to the utter chaos that he and Bag End had been thrown into that quiet night. 

He recounted for Thorin the antics that had taken place before his arrival, from the moving of his furniture to the plundering of his pantry. When he described how the dwarves had thrown his dishes around and the silly song they had sung, Thorin threw back his head and laughed. Bilbo found himself grinning along with him. Laughter from Thorin was rare, even with his new relaxed demeanor, and Bilbo treasured every moment of it.

“That explains quite a bit,” Thorin said. “There was a popular tavern song in the Blue Mountains called  _ That’s What Binar Blockfoot Hates _ , about a stuffy dwarf whose house was invaded by mischievous children. They must have changed the name to tease you.”

That  _ did  _ explain quite a bit. “Well, they were certainly all acting like mischievous children, tossing my mother’s Westfarthing crockery around like that.”

“And I’m sure you played the part of the uptight homeowner quite well,” Thorin said, humor still sparkling in his eyes.

Bilbo scowled, though there was no real heat behind it. “I had every right to fear for the safety of my dishes.”

“Any self-respecting dwarf would never treat a piece of craftsmanship so carelessly, whether it be a gold chalice or a simple dish,” Thorin said, most of the teasing gone from his voice. “They would not have done it had there been any risk of breaking your belongings.”

“Ah.” It seemed, even after spending so much time with dwarves, there was always something new to learn about them. The thought brought a slight pang to his heart—happy as he was to have Thorin with him, he still missed the rest of his friends back in Erebor. “You know, I was thinking about writing to them. The rest of the Company.”

“You should.” Thorin released him and stepped back, allowing Bilbo to continue with the dishes. “They’ll want to know that you made it home safely.”

“Of course. And I should like to know how they are faring in Erebor.” Bilbo paused in the middle of drying a plate. “Do you think I should tell them about...you know.” He turned to send a pointed look in Thorin’s direction.

“No.” He went to stand beside the wash basin, arms crossed. “They’ll think you’ve gone mad.”

“Right.” Bilbo busied himself with his plate, going over a few spots that had definitely been dried by now and ignoring the chill that settled in his gut at Thorin’s blunt words. There were still moments when he questioned himself on that very topic. “I suppose that will still have to be our little secret.”

“I’ll be interested to know how Dáin is faring as king,” Thorin said, changing the subject.

He looked up, trying to keep any trace of bitterness out of his expression. That had been one of the hardest things to watch in the days after the battle—another dwarf being crowned ruler and taking charge of everything Thorin had worked so hard to reclaim. “Do you think he will be a good one? A good king, I mean.”

“He is a great warrior, and wise beyond his years. He can be a bit hot headed at times, but I believe he will do right by our people.”

Thorin’s expression was neutral, but Bilbo could see from the slight hitch in his breath as he spoke that it pained him too to think of someone else on the throne of Erebor.

“I would have liked to see it rebuilt,” he continued, his voice growing softer. “I am glad to know my people have a place where they can thrive in safety. But I would have liked to see it for myself.”

Bilbo felt a cavernous ache echo in his chest. The sorrow in Thorin’s eyes was clear, but he knew he was only revealing the surface of his grief. He set down the dishcloth and gripped one of the dwarf’s hands in both of his own, wishing there was something he could do to take his pain away.

“I realize now that my actions in the battle were reckless. I was too focused on my own remorse and shame, at neglecting my people, acting dishonorably…” Thorin’s voice dropped to a near-whisper as he said, “What I nearly did to you.”

“You have already apologized for that,” Bilbo said, caught between heartache and exasperation. It seemed Thorin’s stubbornness extended to his self-deprecation. “And I have forgiven you. I will forgive you a hundred more times if I have to. A-And Balin told me himself that you will be remembered as a hero. There is no need for shame, Thorin.”

“I should still be there for them,” he said, the raw edge of frustration in his voice. He was staring at the opposite wall with such intensity that Bilbo knew he was not seeing it at all. “Even now, as I stand in the world of the living, it is all beyond my grasp. I can do nothing for my people while I am here.”

Guilt unfurled bitterly at the back of his throat, and Bilbo had to swallow past it to get his next words out. “Then I owe you an apology as well. I was the one who called you here, but I never meant for you to experience such pain at being...being back.”

At this, something in Thorin’s gaze shifted. He met Bilbo’s eyes and lifted one hand to rest in his curls, warmth overtaking pain. “There is nothing to be done for it. I am glad to be here. Your company has brought me a great deal of joy, and I am grateful to have you listen when I express my troubles.”

Bilbo forced a smile. He knew Thorin’s words were genuine, but that did not completely relieve his own uneasiness. It broke his heart to know that regret and longing still plagued the dwarf, and that these feelings had been made worse by his return to Middle-earth. He would have traveled to the very ends of the earth if it meant there was a way for him to fix this.

But it was as Thorin said—there was nothing to be done for it, and it was clear he did not wish to discuss it further.

“I think a change of scenery would do us both some good,” Bilbo said, grasping Thorin’s arm and pulling him out of the kitchen. Hopefully a walk would help clear his head and rid his body of guilty tension. The letter to his friends could wait.

He did not want to think of Erebor at the moment.

* * *

 

They chose one of Bilbo’s favorite paths, heading west down the Waymeet Track. The weather had cooled somewhat, though the sun in the cloudless sky offered them some warmth as they walked.

To their left stretched out a wheat field, the stalks still mostly green and waving gently in the breeze. It was one of the things Bilbo hadn’t known he’d missed about the Shire until he’d returned—there was a certain brightness to the green of Shire plants that he hadn’t seen anywhere else in the world.

“Should be a good harvest this year,” he said, reaching over to interlock his fingers with Thorin’s. “It’s one of my favorite things about the fall. I love seeing the fresh apples and squash set up in the market.” He was rambling, mostly to try and fill the silence and keep the conversation away from heavier topics, but since Thorin seemed perfectly content to listen, he continued. “I suppose my birthday will be coming soon as well.”

“Your birthday?” Thorin turned to him, his eyes widening a fraction. “When is it?”

“The twenty-second of September. Still a few months away,” Bilbo replied.

“That was…” He tilted his head in thought. “That was in the midst of our quest last year. Why did you not tell us?”

“I believe it was the day we arrived in Lake-town,” he answered with a smile. “There wasn’t much of an opportunity for a celebration.” It had been difficult to do anything of that sort during the quest. Kíli, Balin, and Bifur all had turned a year older turning their travels, and they’d done their best to make merry with a flask of wine stolen from Rivendell or a quiet song beneath the trees of Mirkwood. “Besides, I didn’t have anything to give you lot anyway.”

“Why would you have given us anything?”

“Well, because it was my birthday. And you are all my friends.” Bilbo thought that was rather obvious, but then he realized he was being presumptuous. “Do dwarves do things differently?”

“Usually they will receive gifts from their family and friends,” Thorin said. “It seems hobbits have the opposite tradition.”

“Ah.” That cleared things up. “I suppose that would have complicated things a bit.” He smiled to himself, imagining a scenario in which he and the Company had both been trying to give gifts to each other for the same occasion. 

Thorin’s grip on his hand suddenly tightened, and when he slowed his pace, Bilbo found himself slowing down as well. “What is it?” He followed his gaze to the side of the road, where a dark shape was half-hidden in the stalks of wheat.

As they moved closer, Bilbo realized it was a bird. A scattering of dust had been blown onto the feathers of its outstretched wings.

“A crow,” Thorin said, kneeling down to inspect it. 

Bilbo copied his movement. The bird appeared to have fallen mid-flight, given the position of its wings, and one glassy black eye gazed unseeingly at the cloudless sky. 

An uncomfortable prickle appeared on the back of his neck. It had been horrifying to see the rows and piles of dead bodies in Dale after the battle, and something about seeing the stiff form of the crow drew him back to that dreadful feeling.

“What...What happened to it?”

“I’m not sure.” Thorin clasped his shoulder and together they stood again.

They began walking again in silence. Bilbo did his best to shake his memories of the battle from his mind, but the chill remained.

And, as if his inability to forget had manifested physically, they found another bird farther down the road. This one was smaller, nut-brown in color, but its wings were spread in the same way.

He glanced up at the sky, as if there were some airborne stone-throwing menace that was responsible for this. Of course, he found nothing, and now the emptiness of the blue expanse disturbed him. 

“Bilbo.” Thorin was standing a little ways off, at the edge of the field. A small meadow was spread out just beyond, and as Bilbo looked closer he realized the green surface was dotted here and there with dark shapes. He didn’t have to examine them to know what they were.

A light breeze drifted across the path as he went to stand next to Thorin, and the coolness of it made him shiver.

There was no need to speak—they were both thinking the same thing. Something was terribly wrong, and whatever force had caused this had moved from rotting gardens to felling birds from the sky.

“Mister Baggins!”

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a new voice, and turned to see Hanna, the healer who had helped him during his illness, heading towards him. She waved and adjusted the braid of dark hair draped over one shoulder.

He straightened and pushed a smile onto his face. “Good afternoon, Hanna. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself? Feeling better, I hope.”

“Yes, I am fully recovered. I appreciate everything you did for me while I was sick.”

Hanna smiled, causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners. “Well, it’s nice to know that I’m doing my job correctly.” Her eyebrows lifted, as though she had just remembered something, and she asked, “Have you seen a large brown dog around these parts, by any chance? May Goodbody’s lost hers and she asked me to ask around for it.”

“No, I haven’t seen any dog.” Bilbo looked to Thorin for confirmation, and received a shake of his head in response. “But, um, speaking of animals…” He half-turned and gestured to the field behind him, unsure of how to breach the subject of what he had discovered.

Hanna’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer to the field. “More birds? I saw a couple down the road earlier.”

“So did we—I. So did I. Ahem. Do you have any idea what might have caused this?”

She twisted her lips in thought. “Well, I’m no healer for animals. Though I did help Rory when his mare gave birth.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they all ate something poisonous. Must have been some sort of sickness. I’ve not seen a wound from teeth nor claw on any of them.”

A sickness, and an unidentifiable one. That wasn’t much help, but it did draw another similarity between this and what had happened in Hamfast’s garden.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone?” Bilbo asked.

“Word will spread soon enough, as it always does,” Hanna said. “I’m sure the farmers will be glad to have a few less crows feedin’ on their crops.” She looked wholly unconcerned with the situation, and Bilbo began to question his own misgivings. “Well, I have to go deliver a tonic to Fastolph Brown. Lad’s been complaining of headaches. Good day to you, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo bid her farewell, and as soon as she was out of earshot, he turned back to Thorin. “Something isn’t right,” he said, as if to confirm it for himself. “Something’s not right at all.”

“She was bothered by it too,” Thorin said, glancing at Hanna’s retreating figure. “That’s why she was so quick to dismiss it.” 

Bilbo frowned as he realized that he, too, had a trace of the same sentiment. As much as the past goings-on bothered him, the Baggins in him was quite content with turning away and letting the problem resolve itself. He had only just resumed his peaceful life in the Shire, after all, and he had little desire to go running off again in search of another (proverbial) dragon to slay.

He turned to Thorin. “What can we do about this?” The dwarf’s assessment, at least, would provide some clarity.

“Not much, at the moment.” His gaze turned to the horizon, as it often did when he was in deep thought. “But we must be vigilant. If whatever is causing this is dangerous, then we cannot allow it to harm anyone else.”

And there it was: a plan, a way forward. Thorin had a remarkable talent for making the future seem laid out and straightforward, and it was one of the many qualities that made him such a good leader.

The path beneath their feet called his attention once more, and he took Thorin by the arm as they began walking again. Wherever this road led them, he knew he would not be facing it alone.

* * *

For the next few weeks, they kept watch over the Shire, listening in on conversations and subtly inspecting the sky and the crops and the water to check for any changes. Bilbo even caught hold of one of the Rangers passing through and asked her if she had seen anything strange.

Their inspections were, for the most part, uneventful. The Ranger reported nothing out of the ordinary, but promised she would keep a lookout for any strange occurrences involving plants or animals.

After a while, Bilbo found his vigilance waning. The strange occurrences from the past month seemed more and more like simple aberrations. The thought even occurred to him that his experiences with real danger and darkness had skewed his judgement, the same way a loud noise or getting too close to an open fire made him more nervous than it should have.

This was the Shire, after all, and its citizens were nothing if not resilient when it came to the strange and the unexpected.

In the last week of July, May Goodbody’s lost dog was finally found. Its body was nearly unrecognizable, given the blackened rot that covered it from head to toe, and it was only by the woven green collar around what remained of its neck that the dog was identified at all.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise no real dogs were harmed in the making of this chapter.  
> Next chapter will be a break from all this dark stuff and we'll get some good old fashioned Hobbit Drama. But the reveal is coming soon... I'd love to hear your theories after these new developments!  
> Also, credit to darkshire.net for the list of hobbit names that has helped me write this fic. For those of you who struggle with Middle-earth names I would highly recommend it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

"Well? How do I look?" Bilbo spread his arms, offering himself to Thorin's piercing gaze.

"Handsome," Thorin said from where he was leaning against the doorway to Bilbo's bedroom, his arms crossed.

"Which is what you said about the other six waistcoats I've tried on," he said, cheeks reddening. "Not that I'm complaining, but I can only wear one tonight."

"I suppose I like the blue one."

Bilbo dropped his arms back to his sides with a sigh and turned back to the mirror. "Blue isn't really the correct color for the season, though." August was in full swing, and the red-orange waistcoat he had on at the moment would be much more suitable.

"What is the significance of the color of your clothing?" Thorin asked, moving to stand behind him and putting both hands on Bilbo's shoulders. Looking in the mirror, Bilbo could see genuine curiosity in the dwarf's eyes, and recognizing that made him realize just how ridiculous he was being.

"There is no significance, not really," he said. "Of course, different colors go with different seasons, but no one will actually take insult to my wearing a blue waistcoat in the summer."

"Then something else is bothering you."

Bilbo took a deep breath, focusing on the weight of Thorin's hands on his shoulders as they rose and fell. Ever since he had received an invitation to Poppy Brownlock's twenty-sixth birthday party, anxiety had simmered in the pit of his stomach.

Following the strange occurrence in Hamfast's garden, and their subsequent confrontation, Bilbo had done his best to keep to himself. He had thrown himself into writing his account of the quest, rereading some of his old books, and spending time with Thorin. Attending the party would be his first public appearance (of sorts—going to the market didn't really count because socializing wasn't required).

"I'm nervous," Bilbo managed. He struggled with his next words, wondering how he could describe all the reasons why he was nervous, or how to put them in a context that would make sense to Thorin. "I...I'm not the same person I was before I left. And everyone else won't know what to make of that."

"Do you?"

Thorin's question caught him off guard, and he found himself staring at his own reflection, turning the question over in his head.

_ You will not be the same _ . That was plain enough to see in the calluses on his hands and the scar on his temple and the harder edges on his frame that had not been there before. But when he looked past all of that, the story of Bilbo Baggins had become a tangled mess.

He thought he was a little braver than before, yet he found himself feeling afraid when there was no danger to be found. The comfort of his life in the Shire, to which he had been so eager to return, now made him feel out of place, like a pair of trousers that he had outgrown and were now slightly too small.

There were times when he felt like a stranger in his own skin, and he had absolutely no idea what to make of any of it.

"It is your choice," Thorin said, his voice drawing Bilbo out of his thoughts. "How you define your life now is up to you. And the others will see that."

Bilbo continued to stare at his reflection as though it was a map he did not know how to read. His life, even before he had run away with a group of dwarves, had been one contradiction piled on top of another. At times he envied Thorin and his single-minded drive.  _ His _ purpose had been laid before him at birth.

"You have time. I know you will find your way eventually." Thorin gave his shoulders a comforting squeeze, followed by a light kiss on the back of his neck. "I think you should wear the blue one."

He left the room, but Bilbo stood there for a while longer, trying to puzzle the whole thing out like one of the riddles he and his father used to trade. As usual, Thorin's wisdom had given him a sense of direction, even if he didn't know exactly how to proceed.

In a way, it reminded him very much of standing in the dark below the goblin tunnels in the Misty Mountains, alone and paralyzed with fear. There had been no use in going back. And despite the web of shadows that lay before him, and his terror at what he might find within, he had pushed himself to delve into the unknown.

Bilbo straightened up and began to dress himself. Hopefully there wouldn't be any riddle-telling cave-crawlers at Poppy's birthday party.

* * *

 

The party could not have been further from the image of a dank cave beneath a treacherous mountain. There was food and ale, lanterns strung from trees, music, and laughter.

In appearance it was the embodiment of a simple celebration in the Shire. Yet Bilbo still felt as though he had been thrown into another battle, though this time instead of orcs he was fending off politely-worded inquiries about the state of his sanity and the hoard of gold that he may or may not have hidden away in Bag End.

There was a certain chaos about it that perfectly resembled the battle—despite the seeming disorganization of it all there was a great need to move with perfect calculation, giving adequate answers to the questions of his relatives while remembering to be polite and follow Baggins rules of conduct  _ and _ still keeping an eye out for Lobelia because the last thing he needed at the moment was a confrontation with his sharp-tongued cousin.

Bilbo half-wished he had Sting at his hip.

Thorin had left his side about half an hour ago to listen in on a conversation about a group of dwarves that had passed through Hobbiton during the past week, apparently eager to hear news from either Erebor or the Blue Mountains. His reassuring presence had been almost a constant for more than a month now, and he felt his absence acutely, as though he’d rolled over in bed and exposed one side to cold air.

He made his way over to the row of kegs, passing a group of chattering tweens along the way.

“Did you hear the Poppy’s mum couldn’t come? Sick with the flu, poor thing.”

“I heard it was some strange sickness from across the Water,” another piped up. “Been bed-ridden for weeks, so Miss Lobelia helped Poppy with planning her party!”

_ Hm _ . Bilbo pondered that bit of information for a moment, then shrugged it off and continued walking towards the barrels of ale.

Something moved under the table.

Bilbo thought it might have been a trick of the light at first, but he bent down just in time to see a dark, skulking figure dart into the shadows.

His mind immediately went towards the strange creature he had encountered beneath the Misty Mountains. With unease prickling at the back of his neck and a frown tugging at his lips, he walked around the kegs and swept a glance across the ground.

A few feet away, a bush rustled with movement, and Bilbo set off at a quicker pace. The vision of the mountain creature in his mind morphed into a small, nasty imp—a feature of one of the cautionary tales his mother would tell him when he was younger. Perhaps this creature, if it was real, took to killing gardens and animals, and had come to the party to wreak more havoc.

The bushes had grown taller and more densely packed, but he still managed to keep the swiftly moving shadow in his sight. He was just thinking that perhaps he should have brought Sting after all when he pushed aside a couple of branches and found the creature crouched at the base of a tree.

A pair of slitted, glowing eyes gazed up at him.

“ _ Mrow _ .”

Bilbo took in the two furry, perked up ears and felt embarrassment burn away the tension at the back of his neck. It was not a wicked imp at all, but a plain cat.

“Ahem.” He nodded to the cat as it continued to gaze at him. “Sorry about that.”

Still feeling embarrassed but rather uneasy as well, he made his way back to the party.

No one had noticed he’d gone. Bilbo filled up a mug of ale and took a seat at one of the tables off to the side. He sat there for a moment, absently listening to Milo Cotton wax poetic about the huge harvest his crops would yield next month.

Bilbo searched the crowd for Thorin, but could find no sign of the dwarf. He lifted the mug to his lips once more, letting out a sigh through his nose and leaning back against the table. He still had to wish Poppy a happy birthday, though at the moment she was surrounded by a group of her friends and he thought he would wait for a better time. After that, he was tempted to leave early—surely no one would miss him.

That would hardly be the polite thing to do, which was why he had accepted the invitation in the first place, but it was one thing to say you would attend a party from the comfort of your own house and quite another to actually go through with it.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Bilbo turned as Thorin took a seat next to him and placed an arm around his shoulders. The gesture was casual enough, but it relieved him of some of his anxiety. "This is almost as exhausting as dealing with a home invasion by dwarves."

The low laugh he received was enough to make him grin. But Bilbo quickly schooled his features into a more neutral expression as he realized it would look to the other hobbits as if he was talking and smiling to himself. And that would hardly help his image of a sane and normal person.

"Believe me, from what you described, the party at your house was quite tame. You have yet to see a real dwarvish celebration."

Bilbo raised his mug again to hide his mouth as he said, "Is that so?"

"I still remember the first celebration of  _ Ghuregbuzramerag _ in the Blue Mountains." Thorin went on to describe the feast and the music and the drinking, which had lasted for ten days in all.

Bilbo did his utmost to keep a straight face as he listened, though it became impossible not to crack a smile as Thorin recounted Dwalin's mishap with a couple of barrels of ale that had put him out of commission on the third day of the festival.

"Now I am quite glad that the Company did nothing of that sort when they visited me, or I believe Bag End would have been torn to shreds."

"Indeed. That would have been a poor first impression to make."

"Mister Bilbo?"

He turned at the sound of a new voice and saw Hamfast standing on the other side of the table, his own mug of ale in hand. Red flushed onto his cheeks, and he hoped Hamfast hadn't seen him speaking to what would appear to be thin air. "H-Hello Hamfast. How are you?"

"Doin' all right, Mister Bilbo, doin' all right." He took a seat across from him. "Quite the party, eh?"

"Yes, it's...nice." Bilbo swung his legs over the bench so he could face Hamfast. They hadn't spoken much since the incident with his garden, and he felt rather bad about that. "Have you tried Malva Smallburrow's blackberry tarts yet? She's really outdone herself this time."

"Oh, no. I suppose I'll have to get my hands on one of those eventually. My Bell's brought her stuffed eggs, though, and they're nearly gone. Popular as they were last year," he said with a grin.

The love Hamfast had for his wife was clear to anyone who knew the pair, and Bilbo felt a small smile lift his lips at the thought. Now that he knew himself what being in love was like, he understood perfectly what those little moments meant, how another's pride and joy could easily become his own.

"I see you're in good spirits today," Hamfast said, one brow raising.

"Hmm?" Bilbo blinked. Thorin's hand had moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and with his thumb nestled in the curls at his nape, it was proving to be quite distracting. "Oh, yes."

"You got your eye on any lasses here?"

The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to process what Hamfast had asked. And then another on top of that as Thorin moved his hand protectively to his lower back. "I...what? No. Not in—I mean, no. You...what?"

Hamfast gave him a restrained-half smile, as if unsure whether or not to believe his denial. "I was only kidding, Mister Bilbo. It's just that you've got a certain look on your face." He shrugged as though the implications of that were a given.

Bilbo was uncomfortably reminded of Hamfast's comment last month about his being alone. But he did not want an awkward moment like that now, so he forced a laugh and made a show of peering into Hamfast's mug. "No, no, I believe you've had a bit too much to drink. I haven't got my eye on anyone here."

Thorin leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Bilbo's ear as he whispered, "Not even one?"

Now he could feel himself blushing all the way to the roots of his hair, which was most certainly not helping his case with Hamfast. He stepped on Thorin's foot under the table. 

Before any more questions about Bilbo's love life could be raised, a young hobbit clambered onto the bench, standing up and looking down at Bilbo with wide eyes. "Mister Bilbo!"

"Oh, yes, um…" Bilbo frowned. He was blanking on his name—he knew the hobbit was one of the Took children, but there were a great many and he was having difficulty keeping track. "How can I help you?"

"Is it true you fought trolls on your adventure?" The child was speaking far too loudly given their proximity, and Bilbo had to wonder how many slices of honey cake he'd eaten.

"Uh…" He glanced at Hamfast, who was gazing with raised brows at the child. "Well, I wouldn't say  _ fought _ exactly, but we did encounter a few."

The child settled down on the bench, legs crossed. "Were they big? Were they made of stone? How did you beat them? Is it true you have an elvish sword?"

"They were quite big. And they only turned to stone after they were hit with rays of sunlight," Bilbo said hesitantly. But the child was listening with rapt attention, so he continued, telling a watered down version of their encounter with the trolls (one that did not mention his getting covered in troll snot).

Bilbo had never really recounted any part of his adventure to any of the other hobbits. The adults would have wanted nothing to do with it, being quite content with knowing as little about the outside world as possible. But he hadn't considered the curiosity of children—especially Took children—and how they might want to know what had happened.

After he had finished the part about the trolls, he was asked about elves, and launched into another description about his experience in Rivendell, which then led into what had happened after. At this point, three more children had congregated around the table and were also listening. The youngest one had climbed into Hamfast's lap, which the gardener had been surprised about at first, but he now had a small, content smile on his face. Bilbo knew he wanted children of his own someday.

"So there we were, clinging to the side of the cliff in the pouring rain, while these stone giants battled it out above our heads. Just as we thought it couldn't get any more treacherous, the ground beneath our feet began to move, and—"

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

Bilbo bit back a grimace. He didn't have to turn around to know who that shrill voice belonged to.

"Filling the minds of our children with your nasty stories!" Lobelia marched around him and into sight. Her red dress made her look a bit like a strawberry—the sort that was rich in color but sour when you bit into it. She picked up the nearest child and set him in the ground. He looked none too happy about that, but scampered off without a word. The rest of the children followed suit with a sweeping glare from Lobelia.

With the table nearly empty again, she rounded on Bilbo.

"You really have the nerve to ruin little Poppy's birthday party with your disruptive behavior and your fanciful tales? Is knocking on everyone's door and disturbing the peace not enough for you? It's been nothing but trouble from you, Mister Baggins, since you've come back. And I think I can speak for more than just myself when I say it would have been better if you'd never come back at all."

Bilbo felt a rush of air from behind him as Thorin stood up, his voice harsh with rage. "Hold your tongue."

Of course, Lobelia did not spare even the slightest of glances at him. She continued to glare expectantly at Bilbo. "Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see Hamfast watching the two of them, his face pale. The volume of Lobelia's voice had caused several other hobbits to turn and stare.

Bilbo rose from the bench, his eyes never leaving his cousin's. He could feel the eyes of the others on him, making his skin prickle. "I do believe," he said, his voice quieter than he would have liked, "that you are the only one causing a disturbance here, Lobelia. But if it so deeply upsets you to see me telling stories to children, then I will leave."

With that, he turned on his heel and left, nearly knocking into Thorin as he went.

Conversation gradually picked up as he walked away from the table. Most hobbits pointedly resumed what they’d been talking about before, but a particularly sharp voice caught his ear.

“Absolutely wretched person. Did you know we used to be friends? I stopped talking to her the day after the incident with the sewing. You remember that, don’t you? When I got back home that day…”

And all he could think of was how people could become enemies over a needle and thread when others in the world had fought for their very survival.

Ears ringing and posture stiff, Bilbo marched himself along the path back to his house. He was struggling to untangle the knot of emotion that had formed in his chest, and didn't realize that Thorin was speaking to him until a hand on his shoulder forced him to stop and turn around.

They'd ended up in a shaded area of the path, where a couple of trees grew on either side. The sun had set over an hour ago, and in the dark Bilbo could see little more than Thorin's silhouette as he stepped closer. Yet the concern in his posture was clear as he asked, "Are you all right?"

Bilbo let out a long, slow breath, bowing his head as he did so. He wasn't sure why he felt as if he wanted to cry when his cousin had simply acted as she always had. The anger he felt towards the hobbits that had stood by and done nothing was unjustified—they'd had no reason to get involved. And his frustration had little sense behind it either—the children at the party were not his own, and he had no real knowledge of what was good or bad for them.

Once again, he'd found himself wrapped up in contradictions.

"I'm sorry, Bilbo."

"For what?" He lifted his head. "You did nothing wrong."

"I am sorry for what happened," Thorin said. "I did not realize that attending a simple celebration would end in this manner." His expression darkened. "And I have a few choice words that I would like your cousin to hear."

At that, Bilbo cracked a small smile. "It's all right. Everyone knows Lobelia is a…" He lifted his eyes to the sky, his own list of choice words running through his mind. "A difficult person. And I hope most of them will consider that when thinking back on what she said."

There it was—just a tiny thread had come loose, but the knot in his chest had loosened some of its tension.

"Indeed. It is in times like these that you learn who your true friends are," Thorin said.

_ If I have any _ . Bilbo thought back to Hamfast's pale face and his silence.

Only one person had attempted to stand up for him. He lifted his gaze to Thorin's face, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the ethereal blue of his eyes in the dim evening light, the tantalizing shape of his lips as they parted ever so slightly.

Thorin dropped both hands to his waist as Bilbo pulled him into a kiss, gripping his shoulders to help leverage himself to roughly the same height.

They had never done something like this outside Bag End. Bilbo had always been worried that someone would see and that it would lead to some awkward questions. But at the moment the rest of the Shire felt incredibly distant. The party seemed miles away, and the only trace of it was the faint music drifting from over the hill. Right now, it was just him and Thorin in the obscurity of this shaded path.

When they broke apart, Thorin lifted one of Bilbo's hands from his shoulder and held it in his own, his warm, callused skin fitting perfectly against his own. He began swaying gently from side to side, and Bilbo smiled as he found himself copying his movements.

"What are you doing?"

"I believe this is called dancing," Thorin said, leaning closer. "I don't know if you're familiar."

Bilbo couldn't resist kissing him again. "I can't say that I am."

"Would you like me to teach you?"

As they danced in the shadows, slow and steady, Bilbo couldn't help but think that this was real, much more so than anything he had seen or done at the party. The way their hands fit together, the ease with which their bodies moved as one, as if they had been made for each other, made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt before.

This was where he belonged—that much was clear. And it didn't seem to him that there was much reason at all to try and belong anywhere else.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter, so I really hope you all enjoyed it.  
> Credit to the wonderful Dwarrow Scholar for the idea of the Ghuregbuzramerag celebration Thorin mentions.  
> Next chapter things are gonna get heated (in more ways than one...) so keep an eye out next week!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 

“These should be ready to harvest soon.” Bilbo lifted a tomato with the tips of his fingers to get a better look at it. The color was deep, bright red and there were no blemishes to be found. These could definitely be another batch of prizewinners.

“Your garden is coming along nicely,” Thorin said, his arms crossed as he surveyed the rows of greenery. When Bilbo turned and raised his eyebrows at the unexpected comment, he added, “There are no dead plants here.”

“That is a good sign, indeed.” Bilbo smiled and stepped back, linking arms with Thorin. He considered himself fortunate, all things considered. Seven weeks had passed since the disturbing discovery of May Goodbody’s dead dog, and the memory still made him shudder. 

He counted himself very lucky that Bag End had not been affected. Quite the opposite, actually—his garden and the flowerbeds in front of his house had all grown surprisingly fast. Even the oak tree above seemed to have grown a little taller during the past few months.

Thorin was staring at a basil plant, his gaze pensive. Bilbo smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. “Coin for your thoughts?”

“I was just thinking,” Thorin said, blinking away his reverie. “Everyone here is dependent on the weather. The changing of the seasons. It seems an almost...vulnerable way to live.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Things can get a bit unpredictable at times. Not that the Shire has that in overabundance, anyway. But it does add a certain rhythm to life here. It must be different living under a mountain.”

Thorin nodded. “The seasons do affect us in terms of hunting and crops. The ones we plant in the north tend to be hardier, anyway. And for many, the seasons go unnoticed. We do not perceive the passing of a year the same way you do in the Shire.”

“Do you ever miss the sun?”

“No. Sunlight does not carry the same importance for dwarves. We find our illumination in the earth, from the gems and gold and the things we craft from them.”

“As well as an overabundance of lanterns, I’m sure,” Bilbo said, prompting a wry smile from Thorin. 

He loved hearing about life in Erebor, and dwarven culture in general. His brief stay in the mountain kingdom had been full of rubble and empty halls, and overshadowed by dragon sickness and the threat of war—there had never been an opportunity to truly appreciate its magnificence. Thorin’s tales of what had once been always prompted a wave of exhilaration to rise in his heart, a mix of longing for what had since passed and another emotion, one that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It was a bit like the feeling that had prompted him to run out his door in the first place, chasing after a group of dwarves and a wizard.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“It’s nothing important,” Bilbo said, a bashful smile creeping onto his face. “I was only wondering if you’d sing for me. Because, well, you know, I was just thinking about that song you and the others sang the night of the party, and…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“You liked that one, did you?” A smirk tilted the corners of Thorin’s lips as he lifted his hands, fingers lightly tracing the backs of Bilbo’s arms. “I wrote it on the road, during the years before we settled in the Blue Mountains.”

“You wrote that song?” Bilbo raised his eyebrows. That fact intrigued him just as much as the time Fíli had told him that Thorin was a talented harpist. The artist in him was a facet the dwarf kept well-hidden, but it fascinated Bilbo to no end. “I grow more impressed with your skills with each passing day.”

He was delighted to see the blush that spread across Thorin’s cheeks at his words. “If it would please you, then I promise to sing for you sometime.”

Thorin’s face was open and relaxed, so Bilbo ventured to ask a bit more of an intrusive question. “Could you also possibly tell me about that part of your life? The years during which you wrote that song? You hardly ever mention that time.”

His expression sobered at that. “It’s...It’s not easy to talk about. Those years were full of hardship.” A thread of irony twisted his words as he said, “During that time my people were indeed at the mercy of the passing seasons.”

“Then you needn’t share any of it,” Bilbo said. The last thing he wanted to do was drag up the dark parts of the his when he knew Thorin still struggled with the sorrows of the present. “I am sorry I asked.”

“Do not apologize. If you wish to hear it, then I will share some of my history. Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Bilbo repeated. “Very well.” He gestured for Thorin to follow him as he made his way out of the garden. “I look forward to it.”

“I would like to ask a favor of you as well,” Thorin said, falling into stride next to him. “I have not yet heard  _ you _ sing.”

“Oh.” Bilbo reddened as he realized what the dwarf was hinting at. “Well, I suppose there is a reason for that.”

“And what might that be, Master Baggins?” Thorin stepped in front of him, blocking his way with a teasing smile.

“Perhaps I was banned from singing years ago for causing a public disturbance,” Bilbo said, hands on his hips. In truth, he had not sung in public, or any place for that matter, for several decades and had no idea if he was any good or not. There was no doubt that he did not have the deep, alluring voice possessed by a certain dwarf.

“When I heard you humming the other day your voice sounded fine.”

“Well, that is quite different…” Bilbo trailed off as Thorin lifted his gaze to something over his shoulder, his teasing smile sliding into a glower.

He followed his gaze and turned around. Exasperation and alarm mingled in his stomach. Curse his dratted cousin’s impeccable timing.

Lobelia’s brows were high on her forehead, her lips pursed tightly. Upon making eye contact with Bilbo, her face contorted into its usual scowl. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“Can I help you, Lobelia?” 

Her hands went to perch on her hips. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

“Well, it appears as though I am minding my own business in front of my own home.” He wasn’t even going to bother with any sort of formality or courtesy. After her actions at the birthday party last month, he didn’t see a need for it. “Though the same can hardly be said for you, can it? You know, I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing on this road—it’s a bit out of the way for you, isn’t it?”

“And what exactly are you trying to imply?” Lobelia asked, her face flushing.

“Nothing that isn’t already out in the open.” Bilbo stepped closer to the fence separating them, meeting her eyes with a hard stare. “You’ve had it out for me, even before I went away last year. And I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve done to deserve such hatred from you.”

One finger stabbed towards him like a statement. “I’ve always had a bad feeling about you. Nothing good was ever going to come of having a son of a Took in Hobbiton. And you only proved me right by running off with those dwarves. It’s not good for the community, someone like you, especially now that you’ve gone  _ mad _ .”

Bilbo tried not to flinch at that. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see you talking to yourself just now,” Lobelia continued, pouncing on his moment of weakness. “You’d best stay away from the rest of Hobbiton,  _ especially _ the children. One can only think the best solution would be for you to move out altogether.”

Bilbo shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. She was after his house—he should have guessed, really. Lobelia and her husband had coveted Bag End for many years now, though their desire had never been as outspoken as it had after their near-acquisition a few months before.

“You are never going to get what you want. You have spent your life being ruled by greed and spite and lies, and it is going to destroy you one day. That’s what always happens to people like you.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to do this with you anymore, Lobelia. The last thing I want is to fight you or anyone else here—I’ve had more than a lifetime of that already. So I think it would be best for the both of us if you were to leave me alone from now on.” 

Lobelia’s eyes widened and she half-opened her mouth to say something in response, but apparently she saw something in his eyes that prompted her to do otherwise. With a sniff and a particularly nasty scowl, she turned on her heel and continued on down the path.

With adrenaline racing through his veins, Bilbo made it as far as the bench at the front of his house before he had to sit down. He supposed that one could be called a victory, though he didn’t feel particularly  _ good _ about it.

Thorin sat next to him, one arm tentatively wrapping around him. “Are you all right?”

Bilbo let out a slow breath, clenching one hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. He was feeling the same rush he would experience after a narrow escape from an orc pack or a giant bear. It was strange how often his interactions in the Shire resembled battling monsters.

“I think I could use a cup of tea,” he said, then stood and walked back into his house.

One thing that Lobelia had mentioned stuck with him, though. He didn’t exactly feel safer in the Shire, nor was he happier. If he left again, perhaps for good this time, would it be better for everyone?

Bilbo tucked that thought away for later, forcing himself to focus on making tea and ignoring the way his fingers trembled against the kettle.

* * *

 

“...And so we made it all the way back the camp, but when we went around to the back of the wagon, we realized we’d forgotten to put the stopper back in the keg.”

Bilbo leaned back and laughed until his stomach hurt, setting his wine glass on the table so as not to upset it accidentally.

“Dwalin was livid, of course,” Thorin said, grinning as he continued his story. “And once he’d gotten past his disappointment, Frerin dubbed that path Ale Road, and claimed it still smelled like spilled drink for weeks after.”

“Oh, dear.” He dissolved into another fit of giggles as he tried to imagine Dwalin’s reaction.

The dining room was only lit by a few candles, and the glowing orange light added to the hazy warmth that had settled in his stomach after a hot meal and three...four...some number of glasses of wine. The confrontation with Lobelia from earlier seemed like nothing more than a distant memory.

“This Frerin person is very funny.” Bilbo knew better than to ask what had happened to him, as he suspected the dwarf had met the same fate as most of Thorin’s kin and friends. “I’d like to hear a bit more about him.”

“Another time,” Thorin said, the humor in his smile fading. He had started telling him about his life in the wild with a few light-hearted stories, but even those carried a tinge of grief.

“Here.” Bilbo pushed the glass of wine across the table, nearly knocking it over in the process. 

One thick, dark eyebrow rose slightly. “I can’t drink, remember?”

“Nonsense.” He used the tips of his fingers to inch the glass a bit farther towards Thorin. “I know dwarves prefer the stronger stuff, but this is...it’s the good stuff. It—oh.” Bilbo blinked, remembering the real reason why Thorin had refused. 

“I appreciate the offer.”

“Hmm.” Bilbo lurched forward and retrieved the glass, downing the rest of what was inside.

Thorin leaned his forearms on the table, and Bilbo thought that he looked almost nervous. “Bilbo, there’s something I want to discuss with you.”

“All right.” He picked up the bottle and began pouring himself another glass.

“If you want to wait for a better time, when you’re more…”

“No, no. I’m fine. Still can hear and think and all of those. Say what you say. Or what you want to say, rather.”

Bilbo looked up and saw the way Thorin’s lips pursed, as if he wanted to argue, but eventually he said, “I want to talk about the future. Our future.”

“What about it?” Something in his tone made unease wiggle in his chest. He tilted the bottle in his hand. Just a little more wouldn’t hurt.

“The way you’re living isn’t exactly...conventional. You’ve chosen to spend your time with someone who cannot interact with anyone else. And I’ve noticed that you’re not keen to associate with many of the other people in the community. For some, it is quite evident why you would choose to avoid them, but—Bilbo. The glass.”

He looked down and realized he’d gotten quite carried away with the wine, which was now overflowing onto the table. “Oh, dear.” It took a prompting nudge from Thorin’s hand for him to finally tilt the bottle back upright and set it down on a dry spot.

Bracing one hand on the table, he stood up and made his way to the kitchen to get a towel. When he returned and began cleaning up the mess, he noticed Thorin staring at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’m fine. It’s fine. I just got a bit…You know.”

Thorin moved around the table and grasped his wrist before he could touch the wine glass. “I think you’ve had enough, Bilbo. You should get some rest.”

“Weren’t you talking to me about something?”

“That can wait.”

Bilbo allowed Thorin to guide him out of the room. They were halfway down the hallway when he remembered. “Wait, wait, wait.” He took his arm and began pulling him in the opposite direction. “You never did that singing. The sing...thing. That you promised.”

“I did promise, didn’t I?” Thorin hesitated for a moment, then allowed Bilbo to lead him into the sitting room. They settled together on the couch in front of the fireplace. The fire was mere embers now, and they glowed a deep red-orange as Thorin began his song.

This one was similar to the last—low and haunting, with a thread of mournful longing in the slow tune. However, of this one Bilbo could not understand a single word. The song was in Khuzdul, apparently, but his lack of comprehension did nothing to lessen the beauty of it.

When he had finished, Bilbo let out a contented sigh and rested his head on Thorin’s shoulder. He was feeling quite relaxed now, and could feel his eyes drooping closed.

“I hope I did not put you to sleep with that song.”

“You relaxed me. I think it’s the wine, anyway.” Bilbo shifted, tucking one leg under himself as he leaned up to plant a kiss on the dwarf’s lips.

He pulled back and took a moment to look at him. Thorin was staring too, pinning him in place with his intense gaze, and Bilbo felt in that moment that there was something new and undiscovered between them, and he wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of it.

One hand grasped the back of his neck, pulling him in, and Bilbo was lost to the searing heat of Thorin’s mouth.

Without quite thinking about it, he shifted his position again, throwing one leg over to rest against Thorin’s hip so that he was effectively sitting on the dwarf’s lap. Normally such an action would not have even crossed his mind, but given the wine in his belly and his recent disregard for normal hobbitish propriety, he didn’t give it a second thought.

On his part, Thorin seemed entirely agreeable to this new position, placing his other hand on Bilbo’s lower back and pressing him even closer. Bilbo breathed in sharply through his nose as the solid surface of Thorin’s chest pressed against his own. He was only wearing the blue shirt that lay beneath his armor, and even the thickness of the fabric could not conceal the heat that was radiating from his body.

Bilbo drank it all in, reaching up to card his fingers through Thorin’s thick, dark hair. He broke the kiss so he could lean down and press his lips to the surprisingly soft skin of Thorin’s neck. Where this sudden boldness was coming from, he hadn’t the slightest idea. All that was running through his mind was the heart-pounding desire that had overtaken him, and how everything he wanted at the moment lay beneath his fingertips.

Thorin tilted his head back, his groan dissolving into a breathy sigh as Bilbo began working his way down to his chest, nudging aside the collar of his shirt to give him better access. That shirt would have to come off altogether. He reached down and tugged at the hem, but Thorin’s hands followed his and stopped their movement.

“Wait.”

Bilbo leaned back just enough to look Thorin in the eye. A becoming flush was spread across his skin, lips parted as he gazed back at Bilbo, but hesitance marred his expression. 

“We shouldn’t. Not while you’re—“

Before Bilbo could respond, a strange movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. For a moment, he wondered how much he’d actually drunk, for his vision to be distorted so badly.

He leaned to the side, just enough to see past Thorin’s head, and was forced to conclude that no, he wasn’t seeing things. 

Just that morning he had been enjoying a warm summer breeze in his front yard. And now, outside his window, glinting white against the darkness, thick flakes of snow were falling.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big angst coming next chapter, plus the appearance of a new (but familiar) character. Any guesses? And then the chapter after that will be the big reveal I've been talking about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 

It had continued to snow for the rest of the night and well into the morning. Bilbo glanced at the drifting white flakes outside his kitchen window, gripping a steaming mug of tea in one hand and his aching head in the other. He winced, the bright white light sending another spike of pain through his temples, and pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes.

The previous night, he and Thorin had watched the snow through the window for a few minutes, unease filling the room. Bilbo had reasoned that the cold spell would pass, and that while snow this early in the season was certainly out of the ordinary, it didn’t really  _ mean _ anything. He’d fallen asleep shortly afterwards and forgotten all about it.

But now, sitting here with a relatively clear (if pounding) head, Bilbo couldn’t ignore the anxiety that had settled on his shoulders. No one had been prepared for the unexpected snow. If it persisted—and Bilbo had an awful feeling that it would—it could prove disastrous for the crops.

He also suspected that this was somehow related to the other mysterious occurrences. Although snow was hardly as sinister as black rot or sudden deaths, it had the potential to do much more damage.

Bilbo pushed himself to his feet, hissing through his teeth as his head gave a nasty twinge. He needed something to do with his hands, and he’d just remembered the mess he’d made in the dining room the night before.

The cloth used to clean up the spilled wine went into the laundry basket, and he stood for a moment, considering the brimming glass still standing on the table. After a moment’s consideration, he dumped the whole thing out. A prickling sensation rose on his skin, and Bilbo frowned. His father would have blanched at the idea of wasting good food or drink.

Nausea rolled through his stomach, and he collapsed into the nearest chair, taking a couple of shaky breaths. All at once, from some hidden corner in his mind, a flood of guilt tumbled down like a sack of apples ripped open from the bottom.

His father would have been so disappointed to see him like this—arguing with his cousin, shutting himself away, talking to ghosts. He never would have approved his running off on an adventure at all.

Didn’t that still mean something to him?

Bilbo found himself walking, not knowing where he was going until he ended up in his study. The room suddenly felt incredibly small, crowded with books and maps and the fanciful tale he’d half-written about his journey to a faraway mountain.

He took a step back, bumping into the doorframe. The sudden urge rose within him to close the door and lock it, to seal everything away beyond memory. He wanted to get far away from it all, but there was nowhere to go. The farthest he could ever go from the idea of adventures and the unexpected was his own house.

Just as confused, desperate panic was beginning to build in his chest, Bilbo felt a sudden shift in the air. He turned to see the bedroom door swing open, and a moment later Thorin stepped out, his hair still slightly mussed from sleep.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, doing his utmost to eliminate any shakiness from his voice. “I just thought I’d let you sleep in.” He stepped closer, taking in Thorin’s familiar features and searching for a sign, anything that might ground him and help him make sense of the battle that was raging within.

Thorin turned to him, and his smile faded as he caught sight of Bilbo’s face. Concern furrowed his brow. “Are you all right?”

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. As much as he had made a habit of telling Thorin what was going through his mind—his troubles, his worries, his hopes—a terrible fear had locked his thoughts in place. He was afraid saying it out loud would only confirm the fact that he didn’t truly  _ belong _ anywhere, and that he never would.

“I’m a bit hungover from last night,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Ah.” Some of the worry disappeared from Thorin’s face, though he still watched him closely as Bilbo walked past him and into the sitting room. “Anything I can do?” he asked, taking a seat on the couch beside him.

He shook his head, then immediately regretted it as his headache flared up again. “No. I’ll just have to wait it out.”

“All right.” Thorin clasped his hands in his lap and let out a sigh through his nose. “If you are...agreeable to it, I would like to continue our discussion from last night.”

From what Bilbo remembered, they hadn’t been  _ discussing  _ much of anything _. _ “What were we talking about, again?”

Thorin settled back against the cushions. “Have you given much thought to your future?”

If someone had asked him that two years ago, he would have said that things would stay the same. He had never really considered getting married or having children. For the most part, he had lived his life day-to-day, and nothing unexpected had ever come of it—until, of course, it had.

Now, things were a bit more complicated. Bilbo could not see himself living in the Shire for the rest of his life, but he had no idea where he would go otherwise. Like their time getting lost in Mirkwood, the path before his feet seemed to have disappeared entirely.

If he was being quite honest, Thorin’s question scared him.

“I only ask because I am concerned for you. You’ve become reclusive and unhappy, and I fear it is because of me.”

He turned to face Thorin, his eyes wide. A quiet uneasiness had taken over the dwarf’s expression, and Bilbo could tell he was struggling to meet his gaze.

“I do not wish to take away your life, to take away the time you spend with your people.”

It took a moment for Bilbo to find his voice. “No, Thorin, this has nothing to do with you. I-I mean, I love spending time with you. I’m  _ happy _ with you.” A brief, unsteady smile flashed onto his face. “You know, I was hardly the most sociable of hobbits even before I went on the quest with you lot.”

“But this isn’t the quest. I see it in your eyes that you haven’t moved on from all that has happened.”

Bilbo shook his head, the movement almost a shudder. “Thorin, I-I can’t just go back to the way things were before. I don’t think I’d  _ want _ to.”

Thorin took a deep breath. “What I am trying to say is this: I do not belong here, and it is clear that has caused you a great deal of pain. My presence has forced you to choose between your home and the life you experienced outside of the Shire. It is a choice that you should not have to make.”

Spots of cold tingled on his skin, as though the window has blown open and snow had swept into the room. Thorin was more observant than he’d thought, apparently, and had laid the problem out with disturbing accuracy. But what bothered him the most was the fact that he was placing the blame on himself.

“Look. I know things are hardly perfect the way they are. B-But we can make it work.”

“Are you willing to live like this for the rest of your life?”

Once again, Thorin’s question made him stop short. With each one, his lack of answers grew more and more apparent, and he felt despair well up within him.

When Bilbo didn’t respond, Thorin continued, “Something needs to change. It pains me to see you struggle like this. And if I am the reason—”

“Stop. Just stop it.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended, but they fully reflected the fear galloping along with his heartbeat. “You are the only thing that has ever made sense to me in this whole mess, Thorin. You have done the opposite of making things worse.”

“Bilbo…”

The sadness and resignation in his voice reignited his urge to run, to escape this stifling house. He leapt to his feet. “No. We’re not talking about this now. I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”

He made his way to the front hall and threw on his cloak with trembling hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin follow him, and before he could speak Bilbo said, “I’m going out. On a walk. Alone.”

“You cannot run from this.”

The quiet pain in his voice made all the chaos within him twist up a little tighter, and without making eye contact, Bilbo said, “I am not the one  _ running  _ from anything. It is quite clear to me that you’ve got it all backwards, Thorin.” He wrenched open the door with more force than necessary. “But if you are so keen on leaving, then I will not stop you.”

* * *

 

The bitter white flakes did not let up as Bilbo forged his way through the thick blanket of snow covering the path. Their chaotic movements were a perfect mirror to the utterly confused thoughts howling in his mind.

For a moment, Bilbo was swallowed up by memories of the battle, of clashing steel and screaming and dust mixing with the snow, the cold of the stone floors of Ravenhill, how it had bit into his skin as he knelt and watched blood well up hopelessly between his fingers.

His recollection of that day always seemed to creep up when he least expected it. Bilbo found himself walking much faster than necessary as he descended the hill. This time, he wasn’t sure whether he was running from something or towards someone he knew he would never reach in time.

_ Where are you going? _

The question seemed to echo all around him, demanding and relentless.

_ Where are you going? _

There was nowhere to go. It was like Mirkwood all over again—walking in circles through dreaded shadows and eerie noises until the whole Company had nearly gone mad.

“Say, where are you off to in such a hurry, Mister Baggins?”

“I don’t know!”

Bilbo didn’t realize he’d shouted the words until he turned and saw Farmer Cotton’s face, eyes wide and mouth turned down into a small, shocked frown.

“Sorry.” A small measure of coherence took over the turmoil boiling within. “I-I was just…”  _ I can’t say I’m lost, I’m ten minutes from my own house _ .

“No need to apologize,” he mumbled, turning his back to continue hitching his pony to its cart.

It was plain that interaction was already in shambles, so Bilbo swallowed down any half-formed explanations that had come to mind and continued along the road at a tamer pace.

No, Thorin had gotten it completely backwards. If anyone was to blame, it was Bilbo. He couldn’t seem to keep anything straight, even though hobbits were  _ known _ for living simple lives. In his confusion, he had lashed out at everyone who had just been trying to help.

First Hamfast, then Farmer Cotton, and even Thorin—

Bilbo froze in his tracks.

_ If you are so keen on leaving, then I will not stop you. _

Snow flew into the air as he turned on his heel and raced back the way he had come, back towards Bag End. The stone was hard and unforgiving beneath his feet. He had Sting clutched in one hand, orc’s blood still drying on his fingers. The cold, biting wind carried the cries of battle along with a spray of stinging snow.

_ Please, please, please, don’t let me be too late _ .

Little white clouds puffed out with every panting breath as Bilbo slipped and sprinted his way back up the hill. By the time he’d reached the top, he was nearly out of breath, and the rest of it was stolen by surprise as he caught sight of the figure standing in front of his front gate.

Like a tall plume of smoke, Gandalf stood on the path, his gray robe and hat stark against the swirling snow. Upon hearing his panting and footsteps, the wizard turned and fixed him with his usual inscrutable stare.

“Bilbo Baggins. I hope I have not caught you at an inconvenient time.”

“I—What—” He hesitated, momentarily caught between  _ It’s good to see you again _ and  _ What on earth are you doing here? _ Then the thought of Thorin crowded all of it out of his mind and he managed a quick, “One moment, please,” before throwing open the gate and hurrying back inside.

Bilbo didn’t dare call out his name, so he tossed his cloak at the peg by the door (and missed) and began checking the rooms one by one, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

He had nearly given up hope when he threw open the door to the study and found a familiar dark-haired figure standing near the desk. Relief had his whole body going limp, and he leaned against the doorframe to catch his breath for the second time in five minutes.

Thorin turned around and took a half-step towards him before stopping himself. “Bilbo?” 

He launched himself across the room and wrapped his arms around the dwarf. He was immeasurably relieved to find that Thorin was still solid and  _ real _ , a feeling he had not experienced in months.

After a moment of hesitation, Thorin returned the embrace, pulling Bilbo closer with one hand on the back of his head and the other around his waist.

“I want to clarify my words to you this morning,” he said, leaning back so he could look Bilbo in the eye. “I fear there may have been a misunderstanding between us.”

“Yes. That. I-I want to hear what you have to say.” He took a deep breath, taking in the fact that Thorin was still here and allowing it to steady him. “But there’s someone we need to see first.” He had not abandoned his propriety so much that he would leave a guest out in the cold.

Straightening himself out and taking a deep breath, he returned to the front door and opened it, wincing at the gust of cold air that rushed in. “Sorry about that,” he said to Gandalf, who opened the front gate and made his way to the front door. “Please, come in. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”

“That’s quite all right,” Gandalf said, shaking some snow from his hat and propping his staff against the wall near the door. “I won’t be long at all, in fact. I’m here on a matter of business.”

“I-Is that so?” Bilbo said with a nervous laugh, walking towards the sitting room and gesturing for Gandalf to follow. “Well, I must say, I think my questing days are over. I’ve had quite enough encounters with dragons for one lifetime.”

“It is nothing of that sort,” Gandalf said, taking a seat on the couch, which creaked under his weight. 

Bilbo perched himself on an armchair, and Thorin stood by the fireplace, eyeing the wizard with cautious curiosity.

“I am here to speak with you about the oak tree that has grown above your home.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little hard to write, what with Bilbo's conflicting thoughts and feelings, so hopefully I did that justice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 

At Gandalf’s words, a thrill of apprehension made Bilbo tense up. “Oh, yes, the tree,” he said, unsure why he was feeling so nervous. Finally, he was about to get some answers. “The oak tree. That one.”

The wizard’s gaze was piercing in a way that made it seem as though he was peering directly into Bilbo’s mind. “Am I correct in assuming that strange things have occurred since the tree...made its appearance?”

“Yes.” Bilbo shot a quick glance at Thorin, then turned his attention back to Gandalf. “Several s-strange things have happened.”

“Hmm.” Gandalf followed his eyes to the spot next to the fireplace, and stared at it inquiringly.

Thorin stood up a little straighter. “Can...Can you see me?”

However, he received no response, and a moment later, Gandalf turned back to Bilbo. “Would you mind describing for me these strange happenings?”

“Well, um…” Bilbo shared another anxious glance with Thorin. “The first was a terrible accident that happened to my gardener. Or his garden, rather. Well, I call it an accident, but we weren’t really sure what to make of it.”

“And what was it that happened, exactly?”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “All of the plants had rotted away, like nothing I’ve seen before. The whole thing was a dead, blackened mess. We cleared it away so it wouldn’t spread, but that didn’t stop the other thing that happened shortly after.”

“Something else died, yes?”

“Birds. We—I saw them out on a walk a couple months ago. Not a sign of illness or wounds. It was as though they’d simply dropped out of the sky. A few weeks later a dog was found dead as well, covered in the same rot that destroyed Hamfast’s garden. And now…” Bilbo gestured to the window, where the gently falling snow showed no signs of letting up. “This.”

“I see.” Gandalf laced his fingers together and nodded.

Although he was afraid to, Bilbo asked, “Do you know why these things have been happening?” 

“I believe I do.” He turned his gaze to the window, lapsing into another pensive silence. 

Bilbo waited for him to speak, his pulse pounding in his temples and counting the apprehensive seconds that ticked by. 

Finally, Gandalf said, “The world is in a constant state of change. But in it all, there is balance. It is why night follows day, spring follows winter…” The wizard fixed him with a meaningful stare. “Why death follows life.”

“Y-Yes.”

“And if there is an imbalance, nature will always find a way to correct it.”

Slowly, the pieces were starting to come together, creeping forward from where they had lingered on the edge of his consciousness and interlocking to form a clearer picture. “So you’re saying all this death is because of the tree.” His eyes flickered briefly to the ceiling. “Because new life has appeared in the Shire.”

“The tree, yes.” One bushy brow arched slightly. “But he is here too, is he not?”

“He…” Bilbo blinked at that. “H-How can you tell?”

“Well, there is the fact that you’ve been addressing quite a few of your remarks to that seemingly empty space by the fireplace,” Gandalf said with a nod in Thorin’s direction. “And given that you brought home with you the power to create life, I’d imagine there’s only one thing you would wish for.”

That last remark was accompanied by a glint of sympathy in those shrewd eyes, and Bilbo felt a pang in his chest as he was once again lost to memory. Gandalf had been the first to find him during those gray, tear-stained hours after Thorin’s passing, and had stayed with him for a long while after that, silently offering the small comfort his company could give.

“It is his presence, too, that has thrown the Shire into chaos,” Gandalf said in the same gentle, cautious voice he had used after the battle.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin’s face grow pale. His jaw trembled for a moment before he was able to get the words out. “Well...Well, certainly that is unfortunate. But it’s like you said before—nature finds a way to restore balance eventually. So everything should go back to normal at some point, yes?”

“Except these recent events have been distinctly  _ unnatural _ , have they not?” Gandalf shook his head, causing a few strands of silver hair to fall out of place. “There is nothing natural at all about trees growing overnight or the dead returning to the world of the living.”

Bilbo clasped his hands tightly in his lap, feeling the barest of tremors begin beneath his skin. He had a dreadful feeling he knew what Gandalf was about to say next, and did not want to hear it at all.

“I’m afraid the problems that have plagued the Shire will only grow worse unless you cut down that tree.”

“The tree. The oak tree above my house,” Bilbo said, though his voice sounded far away. Faintly, he clung to one last strand of hope. If it was just the tree…

“Not only the tree. If the oak falls, Thorin will follow.”

Silence. It spread and pressed against the walls of the room. The white flakes outside continued to fall noiselessly, and even the ringing in his ears had stopped as Bilbo felt his breathing stop.

“No.”

“Bilbo, I understand this is difficult—”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” His voice came out far weaker than he’d expected, and he turned to Thorin, desperate for some form of support.

The dwarf’s face was still pale, and he did not meet his eyes, choosing instead to focus his gaze on the window. Thorin’s expression was completely unreadable, and Bilbo felt himself shrink back into the armchair a little, feeling terrifyingly alone.

“You are not alone,” Gandalf said as though he’d read his thoughts. “And none of the actions you take exist within this house alone. As long as you live in the Shire, you are connected to it. It is a part of you as much as you are a part of it.”

Bilbo shook his head. “I don’t see how that can possibly be true. I’m not—We’re not  _ hurting _ anyone here.” A prickling heat behind his eyes warned him that tears were not far behind, and he furiously tried to blink them back. “I-I don’t understand how we could be punished for something that’s not doing any damage.”

“I will not say it is fair. But it is the way of the world. It takes just as much as it gives.”

“There has to be another way.” His mind, which had ground to a halt in shock, was now beginning to work once more, furiously searching for something he had missed, a way out that didn’t involve losing everything. “Y-You said this is magic. Could there be some sort of spell, o-or something…” He lifted his gaze to Gandalf, not caring how pleading he looked.

“There is nothing I can do, Bilbo.” He spread his hands. “I am bound to ensure peace within these lands—”

His hands balled into fists. “Peace?”

All of the uncertainty and frustration he had been feeling suddenly converged onto one point as a new realization came to mind. None of this—the pain, the loss, the indecision that was tearing him apart from the inside—none of it would have come into his life had he never run out his door in the first place.

“Is that what you call it? Sending thirteen dwarves into my house, leading us all on a suicide mission to slay a dragon? You might remember that one ended in a battle, which seems to me to be the exact  _ opposite _ of  _ peace _ .”

“I did not force you to sign that contract, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said, his voice rising to match the other’s volume. “Nor did I deceive you about what you would face during your journey.”

“If you knew what it was going to do to me…” Bilbo paused as his voice cracked. “Then why ask me to go at all?”

At this, some of the heat in the wizard’s gaze faded, and he was silent for a long moment. The wrinkles on his face seemed to grow deeper, and Bilbo absently thought that this was probably not the first time he’d had to have a conversation like this. 

“I never wished any harm to come to you. And I never anticipated the heartbreak you would experience at the end of your journey. You did a great deal of good for a great many people.” Gandalf stood, and he knew their conversation was drawing to a close. “I have never known you to be a selfish person, Bilbo Baggins. And I will not force your hand in this matter, either. I only ask you to remember what I have told you, and what sort of person you want to be in this world.”

Too exhausted to do much more than bury his face in his hands and try to remember how to breathe, Bilbo let Gandalf show himself to the door. Another gust of icy wind followed the wizard’s departure, and the house was thrown into silence once more.

* * *

Bilbo did not allow himself to cry, but it was a good long while before he could move without feeling as though he would push himself to the verge of tears. When he finally mustered the strength to look up, he blinked and winced as the burst of light reminded him that his headache had not altogether disappeared.

Thorin had not moved from his spot near the fireplace. The pain in his heart was clear in every line of his face, but upon noticing Bilbo looking at him, he pushed it all under a stony mask.

Soundlessly, the dwarf crossed the room and took Gandalf’s spot on the couch. Another spell of nothing but quiet, hesitant breathing passed.

“I-I didn’t mean it,” Bilbo finally said, his voice nothing more than a shaky whisper. “What I said earlier.” He took a deep breath and managed, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Thorin had trained his gaze on the patterned rug on the floor. Bilbo found himself mentally tracing the sharp line of his nose, the dark shape of his brows, the texture of his hair, trying to memorize all the little features he’d never really appreciated before.

“I don’t want to leave.” Thorin’s voice came out just as soft as his. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Bilbo said, though the words sounded awfully inadequate, a meager salve on a bleeding and painful wound. “W-We can—”

“But if what Gandalf says is true,” Thorin began, then left the unspoken half of his sentence hanging in the air like a death sentence.

“There has to be another way.” There had to be, because Bilbo still could not fully wrap his mind around the alternative. He could not imagine experiencing the most painful loss of his life a second time, and going back to living in this awful echoing house alone.

Another idea sparked to life in his mind, and Bilbo let it lift him to his feet. He moved over to the couch and took Thorin’s hands in his own. “Look, I think there was some truth to what you said this morning. Eventually I am going to have to choose between my life in the Shire and what is out there. And I’ll choose.” He squeezed Thorin’s hands, willing him to have the same optimism that was beginning to brighten his words. “We can leave the Shire, together. That should...That should fix things.”

Thorin finally met his gaze, and the quiet resignation in his eyes doused the spark of hope that had momentarily lifted his spirits. “I meant what I said earlier, right before you left. You cannot run away from this.  _ We _ cannot, no matter how painful—” He stopped, his jaw tightening, and averted his gaze once more.

“So...So that’s it?” Bilbo asked, indignation rising again. “That can’t be. It’s not like you, to give up so easily.”

He closed his eyes, taking a moment to collect himself. “I see no other option. It pains me beyond belief to give up what we have, but I will not let my own desires result in the suffering of others.”

Bilbo drew back his hands, hurt, then remembered exactly who he had fallen in love with. Thorin still had the mindset of a king, and he knew it was impossible for the dwarf to place his desires over the good of the people and maintain a clear conscience.

“I will not force your hand in this either,” Thorin continued. “It is your choice. But I do not wish to see you bear the pain of losing your home.”

“And that,” Bilbo said, his voice hoarse, “is exactly why I can’t cut down that tree.”

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed in miserable silence. Not knowing what else to do with himself, Bilbo sat his in his study and stared at the blank pages of his book until his vision blurred. He’d reached the part where they’d been traveling through Mirkwood, and in his despair, he wished he was back among the oppressive boughs and foul-smelling fog.

He wished he was back among his friends.

It was only when Bilbo was forced to light a couple candles just to see the page that he realized night had fallen and that he’d skipped a few meals in the process. Normally he would have been aghast, but at the moment it all seemed very far away, like an afterthought he didn’t have time for.

It was startling, how quickly it had all been cut short.

“I just need more time,” he whispered to Thorin as they lay in bed that night.

“I know,” he replied, and reached out for him for the first time that day.

They clung to each other in the dark, and each hour that passed seemed longer than the last as Bilbo lay awake with a ghost in his arms.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me Gandalf has always been that character focused more on the greater good, and willing to accept collateral damage. So that was interesting to explore a little in this chapter.  
> Points to the few people who managed to guess this "twist" almost exactly. Though I never really intended to write this story as a mystery. When it comes to grief there is no mystery, really...  
> I would still love to hear what you thought of this chapter, what you think Thorin and Bilbo should do next, and how this fic will possibly end. We're almost there, after all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and violence in this chapter.

**Chapter 11**

 

Bilbo was standing in the parlor, trying to calculate how exactly to ration his firewood to lengthen the period before he would have to get some more, when a pounding on the door made him jump.

“Bilbo! Mister Bilbo! Come quick!” From the other side of the door, Hamfast’s voice was rushed and panicked.

At the sudden sound, Thorin hurried into the room. He and Bilbo shared a quick, apprehensive glance before they made for the door together.

Bilbo flinched at the gust of cold air that rushed in as he opened the door. His gardner stood panting on the doorstep, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.

“Mister Bilbo, you have to—down by the fields—didn’t know who else to—”

“H-Hamfast, just slow down. What’s going on?”

“Wolves!” Hamfast looked up at him, eyes wide. “Down by the fields. ‘Cause of the snow, the farmers are having trouble gettin’ away, and I-I didn’t know who else to—”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Bilbo said, already reaching back to grab the cloak from its peg by the door. 

Hamfast nodded, his face pale, and Bilbo turned and dashed back into his house, slinging his cloak on with one hand. He knelt by the trunk outside his study and began rummaging through its contents.

“Are you sure about this?” Thorin asked, kneeling beside him. “It’s dangerous out there, and you’re alone—”

“I know.” Finally finding what he was looking for, Bilbo pulled out his short sword and drew it, dropping the sheath to the ground as he stood up. “But I can’t just stay here, or wait for someone else to come. I…” He swallowed hard, knuckled whitening as he gripped the sword. “I’m the only one that can help them right now.”

There was no more time to waste. Bilbo ran out into the cold, Sting glinting in the white light and his cloak flying out behind him as he sprinted down the path towards the fields. 

As he ran, it became even more evident how the Shire had been buried beneath the snow. All trace of greenery had been erased, replaced by mere shadows beneath the blank white.

It wasn’t long before the howling of wolves reached his ears. The sound wasn’t as chillingly feral as that of wargs, but Bilbo knew wolves still had sharp teeth and deadly claws that could tear through flesh as easily as any orc’s mount.

At the edge of the field he encountered Hanna and Farmer Cotton. His face was pale and strained, and the arm that wasn’t soaked with blood was draped over her shoulder.

“There’s a couple more still out in the field,” Hanna said. “Hurry!”

Bilbo charged into the snow, towards the dark shapes he could see moving against the blinding white expanse ahead of him. It was incredibly difficult to move through the drifts that rose up past his knees, and he could see why the farmers had experienced such trouble escaping the wolves, who were much more suited to the terrain.

Already, one of the beasts had picked up his scent and was stalking towards him, eyes gleaming yellow on its narrow face.

“Any advice?” he asked Thorin, who was standing next to him and looking as if he wanted to take on the wolf himself.

“Go for the throat. And don’t let it bite you.”

“Right.” He turned back to the advancing wolf, trying not to tremble as it broke into a run. When it was only a few yards away, it leapt into the air, teeth and claws extended towards him.

Thankfully, Bilbo had not completely forgotten the sword training he’d received while traveling with the Company. He swung his sword in a powerful horizontal stroke, stepping to the side at the end of his swing. His timing was good enough to catch the wolf on the side of its neck, and a hot spray of blood spattered the snow right where he’d been standing.

The beast gave one last gurgling growl, paws sinking into the stained snow as it stumbled, then fell.

Bilbo barely had time to catch his breath before Thorin was calling his attention to another couple of wolves not far away.

Both of the creatures were crouched low over something, and seeing the dark red that was already spreading beneath their paws, Bilbo pushed himself into a sprint. The wolves turned in unison at the sound of his footsteps, and he found a relatively shallow area to await their advance.

The first wolf was not much smarter than the last one he’d fought, and was dispatched in more or less the same way. The second, however, provided a bit more difficulty. Bilbo must have been off with the timing of his swing, because the wolf’s teeth locked around his blade, and before he could move, its momentum had sent them both tumbling to the ground.

The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. Bilbo struggled to free his sword from the red-stained jaws, then cried out as pain slashed across his chest. His arm jerked, and the wolf finally let go with a whine of pain. Moments later, his blade entered the flesh below its neck, and the beast fell.

“Bilbo!” Thorin knelt down next to him, eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

Hissing through his teeth, Bilbo pushed himself up with his free hand and gingerly touched the burning spot on his chest. His fingers came back coated in red.

“Here.” Thorin pressed the corner of his cloak into his hand, his voice laced with a fear that made his own heart beat even faster. “You need to put pressure on the wound.”

Unsteadily, he did as Thorin asked, then winced as the burning sensation flared up. “No, no, I need to…” The snow bit into his palms as he pushed himself to his feet. “Need to find the others.”

Bilbo turned around and finally caught a good look of what the two wolves had been leaning over. The sight of the other hobbit lying there, clothes stained with far too much red, nearly brought him to his knees.

Numbly, he forced himself to trudge through the snow, crossing the short distance and kneeling beside him. He stared at the body until his vision had become a blur of white and red.

“Hugo Burrows,” he said as Thorin knelt beside him. “H-He used to sell me fish at the market.”

A strange sound startled him—a faint rasping noise, and it was coming from below.

“Breathing,” Bilbo realized a moment later, and then a shock of adrenaline made his eyes widen. “Oh. H-He’s still breathing. He’s still alive.”

“Bilbo, look out!”

Thorin’s shout made him jump to his feet and turn towards the pounding of wolf’s paws, but it was too late. He managed to raise his arm just in time to prevent the wolf’s teeth from sinking into his throat.

An agony unlike anything he’d ever experienced clamped down on his right arm. His vision crackled with white sparks, and when it cleared, his senses were filled with the low snarls of the beast, its gray fur inches from his face, and red, red, red—spilling from his arm and between the teeth of the beast.

From what seemed like very far away, Thorin was shouting something that he couldn’t quite make out.

The wolf, jaw still locked on his forearm, shook its head, and Bilbo’s senses were taken from him once more. When they returned, he realized his throat felt raw, though he couldn’t remember screaming.

Distantly, he registered a strange weight on his stomach. Sting—it must have fallen from his grip when his arm had been bitten. With fumbling fingers that didn’t seem to want to respond properly, Bilbo gripped the handle with his left hand.

Using the last of his strength, he drew back and drove the sword into the rippling fur above the beast’s shoulder.

The next thing he knew was the clear blue of the sky above. Bilbo was reminded of the day he and Thorin had discovered the dead birds, how the sky had been the exact same shade.

He lay there, feeling dizzy and cold and spread-eagled just like the fallen crow they had seen. Thorin’s face filled his vision for a moment, pale and pleading, but then it was gone.

All of it had yielded to a hazy black, and he realized distantly that he had closed his eyes, perhaps for the last time.

* * *

 

_ Bilbo watched strange dark shapes twirl about overhead, silhouetted against a pale sky, and wondered where on earth he was. _

_ His head hurt something awful—or was it his arm? Whichever it was, he didn’t much feel like getting up at the moment. He was quite content to lie there and watch the pretty shapes. _

_ A loud grating sound made him wince. Bilbo would have called it whispering, but it was far too loud. There was a strange rhythm to it...breathing, perhaps. It was desperate and rough and it took him a moment to realize that someone was taking their dying breath. _

_ The realization startled him, and as though the world around him was reacting to it, the dark shapes above grew still. _

_ And then they began to fall. _

_ The giant eagles hit the ground one by one and lay still, wings spread as though they were still in mid-flight. Bilbo flinched, terrified one would land on top of him, but then he lifted his gaze and realized he was quite sheltered by leafy green boughs extending overhead. _

_ Warmth was beginning to soothe his limbs, and with a little effort, Bilbo found that he could sit up. The grass was soft beneath his palms, and just beyond his feet was a small, clear stream. _

_ Bilbo had trouble understanding what lay after that. Fine white sand and green rolling hills and beams of golden light all blended together in a way that didn’t quite make sense. _

_ It was still quite beautiful, though. _

_ A chill from behind made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Though he was reluctant to do so, he turned around. _

_ Cold air was emanating from the wall of fog that stretched as far as he could see in either direction. It was eerily silent where he was standing, but as Bilbo listened closer, he thought he could hear the faintest strains of a low, mournful song. It was calling him, and he had the strangest feeling that he recognized the voice.  _

_ He turned back to the light. He thought he would quite like to go there, to experience that warmth and beauty one day. _

_ But he had to follow the voice. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he began to follow the sound into the mist. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not the turn of events you guys were expecting, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, or what you think will happen next.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 

Bilbo tried to sit up, chasing after the voice that had long since faded into silence, but his body was sluggish and didn’t respond properly. He managed to open his eyes a bit, and the first thing he saw was a dark-haired figure leaning over him.

“I-I’m here,” he said, though his voice came out as nothing more than a whisper, raspy from lack of use.

“Indeed,” replied a feminine voice, and Bilbo blinked in confusion. His vision began to clear, and he realized it was Hanna standing over him. “And you’ve recovered remarkably quickly.”

“What…” He sat up, ignoring the way his head swam with the sudden motion, and looked around. He was sitting in a bed in a small room he didn’t recognize. Bright light was coming through a window above the bed. His forearm and chest were wrapped in clean white bandages. “Where’s Thorin?”

“Who?” Hanna asked, walking over to a small table and pouring water into a cup.

Silently scolding himself, Bilbo leaned back and said nothing. He grunted as he tried to put his weight on his right arm and pain shot all the way up to his shoulder. 

With a jolt, it came back to him—Hamfast knocking on his door, running through the snow with Sting, the wolf’s teeth around his arm. And then, with an undercurrent of dread, Bilbo remembered why all of this had happened in the first place.

“Take it easy,” Hanna said. “You’ve been out for a day and a half.” Although her voice was calm, a crease appeared in her brow, and there was a slight tremor in her hand as she gave him the cup. “I-I did what I could to patch you up, but most likely there’ll be some scarring. The bones in your right arm are only bruised, fortunately.”

No doubt she was still shaken up about it. Healers in the Shire were mostly used to head colds or the occasional scraped knee, after all.

Bilbo felt something like kinship towards her in that moment. She had been out there in the field as well, had seen the violence inflicted firsthand. It was a connecting thread he hadn’t thought he would find in any of the other hobbits.

“Thank you,” he said. “For helping me.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said as she began rummaging through the bag on the table. “And I should thank you for risking your life out there. Gave me enough time to help the farmers who were injured. Even Hugo Burrows…” She paused, a frown twitching on her face. “He’s holding on by a thread. But he wouldn’t have stood a chance if you hadn’t been there.”

Bilbo took a sip of the water, unsure how to respond. He hadn’t charged into that field expecting any sort of thanks afterward. But it was still nice to know that he hadn’t gotten his arm torn up for nothing.

Hanna found what she was looking for and withdrew a small bottle filled with dark green liquid. She returned to the bed and handed it to him. “This should help with the pain. It’ll also make you a bit drowsy, but you could use the extra rest.”

“I appreciate it.” Bilbo downed the medicine and handed the empty bottle back to her. He lay back, a fog of sleep already creeping from the corners of his mind, and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

When Bilbo woke again, he was delighted to discover that his dwarf had returned to him. Thorin had one of Bilbo’s hands clasped in both of his and was staring out the window above the bed, his gaze pensive. He gave Thorin’s hand a light squeeze, prompting the dwarf to look down.

“Bilbo.” His shoulders sagged with relief, and he reached out to help him sit up. One hand brushed over the bandage on his arm. “Are you well?”

“For the most part,” he replied with a half-forced smile. “Still breathing and all that.”

Thorin reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand, his gaze solemn. “Ónar.”

“Sorry, what?”

“He is an armourer in the Blue Mountains. His pieces are well-made and extraordinarily lightweight. They’ll come at a high price, but—”

“Thorin.” Bilbo held a hand up, stopping him. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not going to make wolf-slaying my profession.”

“I do not ever want to see you like that again. To see you in pain, bleeding out while I could only stand there and do nothing.” His brow furrowed and he bowed his head, but not before Bilbo caught a glimpse of the tears that had filled his eyes.

He reached forward and wrapped his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, holding him close as if that would stem the flood of guilt welling in his own eyes. He hated how helpless Thorin felt, and hated even more what it would take to put an end to it.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I survived. And i-if it will make you feel better, I will get the armor from that fellow in the Blue Mountains.”

Thorin took a deep, shuddering breath. “When I am gone—” He stopped, feeling Bilbo stiffen in his arms. He drew back so he could look him in the eye.

“Don’t start talking like that, now.” Bilbo brushed away the tears from the dwarf’s cheeks. “Please.”

“Let me say what I must.” He reached up and grasped Bilbo’s hands in his own, bringing them down to his lap. “We cannot keep avoiding this.” When he received no protest, Thorin said, “The situation in the Shire has grown dangerous. We let this continue, and several people were injured, including you. I’ve been listening to the conversations between the people of this town. Their crops are dying. And I fear this is only the beginning.”

Bilbo stared at him, his jaw tense. Everything Thorin had said was true, except for one small word. It was only him that had let this continue. It was his selfishness that had caused yesterday’s bloodshed, and that fact weighed on him along with everything else.

“I do not want to see harm come to you, or anyone else.”

“So you’re saying,” Bilbo said, his voice quiet and unsteady, “that you want me to…”

“I believe it would be for the best.” Thorin leaned forward, gently resting his forehead against Bilbo’s. “But it is your decision. And I trust your judgement.”

He closed his eyes as more tears welled up. His judgement was one thing, of course.

His heart, however, would not be so easily persuaded.

* * *

 

After the fight with the wolves, Bilbo had been brought to a spare room in the Green Dragon, which had apparently been the closest place to tend to him. Due to the horrible weather, Bilbo had assumed that the place would be near-empty, and had planned to slip out quietly and return home.

His escape plans were thwarted, however, as he stepped out into the hallway and heard a chorus of voices sounding from the main room. He crept closer and almost winced at what he saw.

The large room, which normally functioned as a tavern, was filled with hobbits. The tables and chairs had been pushed aside to make room for the crowd. They were all clamoring among themselves, but upon hearing a powerful voice from the front of the room, they all quieted down.

“Now, now, I know this is quite the dire situation, but we mustn’t panic. That’ll do us no good in the end.”

Bilbo crept closer to the room. He’d recognized his cousin’s voice immediately. If the Thain was here in Hobbiton, then the situation must have been desperate indeed.

“My crops are all dead,” Milo Cotton called out from the crowd. “Killed by the frost. We’ll have no food for the winter, and it’s only September. What are we supposed to do?”

This was followed by another burst of overlapping voices, which again had to be quieted by the Thain.

“This isn’t the first tough winter we’ve weathered. Not twenty years ago, wolves and orcs crossed into our land and attacked. Our food was short then, but we made it through. We’ll send word to the rangers in the north, and—”

“What of the strange happenings that have been going on for months now?” another hobbit asked. “Hamfast Gamgee’s garden, May Goodbody’s dog, and whoever knows what else.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. “It’s not natural, none of it.”

“Have we been cursed?” someone else called out.

Unease fluttered through the room.

“Well…” The Thain shuffled his feet uncertainly. “Well, I can’t say I know for sure what’s been causing that. But—”

“I think we all know who is to blame.”

Lobelia’s voice cut through the crowd, making them all turn towards her. And then, as their gazes gradually shifted in the opposite direction, Bilbo realized she was glaring at  _ him _ .

Thorin grasped his arm, the gentleness of his touch in sharp contrast with the way he was glowering at Lobelia. “Come on. We don’t need this right now.”

Bilbo certainly did not need or want a confrontation with his cousin after the week he’d had. But two dozen gazes had pinned him to the spot, and he could do nothing but listen as his cousin continued.

Her voice wasn’t very loud, but it was sharp enough that it didn’t matter. “None of this started happening until Bilbo Baggins came back and started stirring things up. We all know it’s not natural for a Baggins to go running off. And now he’s come back and brought with him all the wrong sorts of things that don’t belong in the Shire.”

For a minute, no one said anything, and Bilbo was willing to let it stay that way. He hadn’t the slightest drop of anger left to formulate a reply to Lobelia’s words. If the others wanted to believe her, he would let them. All he wanted to do at the moment was return to Bag End and curl up with Thorin and try to sleep off the dull ache in his arm and his chest.

A hobbit Bilbo didn’t recognize stepped forward, putting his weight on a cane. “Mister Baggins saved my life yesterday. One of those wolves was coming towards me, and my leg had gotten all twisted up in the snow, but he came charging in and distracted the beast. Killed the wolf and bought me time to get away.”

“Mister Bilbo helped me clear out my garden, too.” Hamfast stepped into view. “Spent the whole afternoon bringing the rot down to the gully, so it wouldn’t spread anywhere else.”

“He saved quite a few lives yesterday.” Hanna faced Lobelia, her arms crossed. “Seems he’s done a lot more than  _ you _ to help people with these strange happenings.” 

Everyone watched as Lobelia searched the crowd, her face slowly reddening as no one spoke up in her favor. After a minute, she muttered something under her breath and pushed her way towards the door.

Bilbo could feel his own face reddening as he realized everyone was looking at him again, but this time with something a little closer to respect. It dawned on him that the others were looking to  _ him _ for a clue as to what they should do next.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “Well, Fortinbras is right,” he said with a nod towards the Thain. “We’ll get through this.” He took a deep breath and, feeling Thorin’s hand sliding down to grasp his own, spoke in a louder voice. “But we need to pull together. We can’t be throwing accusations or turning away from one another because that’s...that’s how we fail.”

A couple hobbits nodded. The nervous energy in the room began to shift. His heart was pounding, and he wasn’t sure why until his next words left his lips.

“I-It’s all right to be afraid. But we can’t let that fear stop us. This isn’t going to be easy, but the only way to go is forward.”

Silence filled the room. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice called out, “Bilbo is right.” His cousin Drogo stepped into view. “We’ll make it through together, won’t we, folks?”

A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd, punctuated by a few louder voices.

Fortinbras cleared his throat and said, “Right, then. Let’s see what we can all do for each other.”

The other hobbits turned and listened as the Thain began assigning tasks, and Bilbo let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He realized he was shaking, but it wasn’t from nerves. He hadn’t been speaking just to the others—he’d been reassuring himself, and confirming the truth he’d spent weeks denying.

As terrified as he was, he knew what he had to do now.

Bilbo stepped into the room, and Thorin let go of his hand. As he moved through the crowd, the noise and the people all seemed very distant, a buzzing echo of something far away. It was only when he had reached his destination that some semblance of feeling returned to his limbs.

“Hamfast,” he said quietly, tapping the gardner on the shoulder to get his attention. “I need to borrow your axe.”

* * *

 

It was snowing again. The wind had picked up into a howling gale, and was blowing the white flakes at such an angle that they stuck to his hair and the back of his cloak.

Bilbo barely felt any of it. He grasped the handle of the axe, the other end resting on the ground. The oak tree was standing a few feet away, its still-green leaves peppered with snow.

He had never felt more afraid in his life.

“Bilbo.” Thorin stepped in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders.

It hit him then, the trembling magnitude of what this moment was. In the hours since he had woken up, he had done his best to hold it all back, but now a wave of grief flooded through his body and threatened to crumple him like paper in a fire.

“I…” What was he supposed to say? The last time he had been forced to say goodbye to Thorin, it had all been rushed, things had been left unsaid, and afterwards he had been wholly of the mind that there had not been enough time.

Even now, it seemed as though the moment was slipping away like blood from a wound—inevitable, and fading with each second that hurtled closer towards the end.

“I wish we had more time.”

“As do I.” Pain was beginning to seep through the mask Thorin had carefully erected since Gandalf had told them the truth. The sight of it made Bilbo shake, and he forced himself to keep his grip on the axe.

Gently, Thorin moved his hands to Bilbo’s face, cupping it gently as he pressed their foreheads together one last time.

“You are one of the most incredible people I have ever met. It was a true blessing to have someone with your bravery, your heart, and your selflessness in my life. And I would not trade anything for the time we had together.”

The wind was biting against his face, stinging his skin as burning tears trailed down unimpeded. Bilbo reached up and wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck, pulling him closer and praying the warmth from the other would thaw the ragged chill spreading through his chest.

The moments spent holding him seemed altogether too short, and before he knew it, Bilbo was pulling away again, trying to find room in his lungs for the words he wanted to say.

“You changed my life, Thorin. You made me happier than I have ever been. And losing you...was one of the hardest things I have ever done.”

Thorin brushed a tear away with his thumb, pride and grief mingling in his eyes. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle, tear-stained kiss to his lips. “May we meet again,  _ amrâlimê _ .”

He stepped away, and Bilbo watched with blurred vision as he walked down the hill, until his tall, proud figure was obscured by the storm.

Biting back the tempest swelling within, he hefted the axe and stepped closer to the tree. The first swing nearly caused him to drop the axe, both from the pain that shot up his right arm and the horror at the sight of the wound he had caused.

Half of him expected blood to pour from the slashing opening he’d created in the bark, but there was only the pale wood that lay beneath.

Ignoring the pain in his arm and the deeper burning that had spread from his chest all the way up his throat, Bilbo lifted the axe and tried again.

Minutes later saw his fingers numb from the cold, his palms sore and bleeding, and sweat and tears mingling as they dripped from his chin. Just as he thought he could not lift the axe another time, another gale blew across the hill, and a low creaking sounded from the base of the trunk.

With an air of terrible finality, the tree tipped over, and its slow arc towards the ground drained the last bit of resolve from Bilbo’s heart.

The tree fell, and just before touching the earth, burst into ash.

And Bilbo finally sank to the ground, the falling snow and swirling wind howling out his grief upon the hill.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like listening to music after reading this chapter, I recommend Oblivion by Bastille or Lover's Mask by Theophany. They both really fit this fic and are good songs to cry to. And if you want to get SUPER sad, listen to Slow Dancing in the Dark (Acoustic Version) by Joji.  
> Also, I am very, very sorry.


	13. Chapter 13

**Winter**

 

Warmth returned to the Shire. It was fleeting, and carried the briskness of autumn, but the hobbits took it as a sign—a good omen. They unburied their crops from the freezing clutches of ice and shared what food and comfort they could with each other as winter crept once more upon the land.

The season was quiet, and thankfully uneventful. No more wolves attacked. The black rot disappeared. Families lit their hearths and waited together for the weather to grow warm again.

Every once in a while, someone would glance up towards the hill, where the windows of Bag End had remained dark, its curtains drawn shut. They had remained that way for months, as silent as the time Bilbo Baggins had run off two summers ago.

But for most, it was a fleeting thought. Time passed as it ever did, winter thawed into spring, and the people of the Shire moved on from the tragedies that had occurred.

* * *

 

**Spring**

 

Bilbo did not.

Dust gathered on the study desk. The food in the pantry dwindled, the existence of its contents only lengthened by its owner’s loss of appetite. The bedsheets remained in a constant state of disarray, rumpled by nightmares and long hours of lying awake.

Even as the sunlight streaming in through dusty curtains turned from chilly gray to a warmer yellow, the interior of Bag End remained cold and silent.

And just as it had been months before, the silence was shattered by several loud knocks to the front door.

At first, Bilbo did not even look up. He was sitting on the couch, hands tucked between his knees, staring at the firewood rack, which had been empty for weeks.

“Mister Bilbo? I know you’re in there.” A pause. “At least, I’m hopin’ you are.”

With stiff muscles, Bilbo moved. He withdrew his hands and buried his face in his palms. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to someone. A large part of him recoiled every time he pictured Hamfast’s concern, or Lobelia’s biting comments, or Hanna’s blunt remarks. Keeping his distance was safe in a way he didn’t fully understand.

Hamfast kept talking. “I know your injuries have healed by now. And I get the feeling somethin’ else is botherin’ you, though I haven’t the slightest clue as to what that might be. But, well, I’ve been thinkin’ on what you said earlier. We all made it through the winter because we stuck together. And now we’re through. But it doesn’t have to just be the hard times.”

Silence dropped over the house, and for a moment Bilbo thought Hamfast had left. The ache that came with that thought scared him.

“I’m here, Mister Bilbo, if you’ll be wanting company.” A light, nervous chuckle followed. “Though I’d feel quite silly if I was just talkin’ to this door with no one behind it. But I suppose there’s nothin’ to be done for it.” Another pause, as though Hamfast was waiting for him to respond. “Tea is at four, if you’d like to come.”

After that, Bilbo knew Hamfast had gone. He sat there for a while, breathing with far more effort than it should have taken and swimming through the tempest of thoughts in his mind.

Losing Thorin had left him completely alone. The long winter months had sunk him further into that mire, dragging up the old weight of grief and leaving him sick and exhausted. An invitation to spend time with another should have made him...well, perhaps  _ happy _ was too tall an order at the moment, but it would have at least provided a break in the emptiness that had swallowed up his days.

Yet Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder how on earth he was supposed to act like a normal hobbit. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken or smiled. On the rare occasion that the fog of numbness dissipated, tears would often threaten to rise. Sometimes he didn’t have the strength to stop them.

The first time, Gandalf had been with him, and they had been traveling through the wilderness. The alertness and exertion required for their travels had kept him from sinking too deep into grief, and the wizard’s company had helped him keep his mind off of it, for the most part.

Now? Bilbo had nothing to keep him afloat.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

* * *

A strange, sharp noise made him wake with a start. Bilbo winced and pulled the covers close to his ears, wondering if a window had sprung open and was creaking in the wind, or if he was simply hearing things.

The noise faded and his shoulders sank as the tension left his body. It was daytime, certainly, but the exact hour escaped him. The days had blurred together since the tree, but they had also stretched out immensely, and it seemed as though winter had taken half a year to finally pass.

Bilbo stretched out his arm, eyes running over the jagged scar on his forearm. The wolf had torn up his skin so badly it no longer resembled a bite mark—just a random pattern of marred flesh, still red but no longer painful. It was as though the chaos in his mind had been etched onto his skin.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he had never woken up from that injury, if he had entered Thorin’s world instead of the other way around. He would no longer have had to stand upon a threshold. There was a small amount of comfort in that thought, of having the pain of choice taken away.

But it wouldn’t have been right. Thorin would never have wanted that, and Bilbo knew in his heart that he did not want to die yet. He still had a good amount of life to live, even if he didn’t know how to live it.

The sharp noise sounded again, followed by a fluttering sound, and Bilbo grimaced. He’d grown used to the silence of his home, and after Hamfast had visited, he had buried himself in it. The quiet oblivion was painful, but it was a familiar pain, one that had taken root within.

It was this thought that finally had him throwing back the covers and padding out of the bedroom. He followed the strange sounds, which had begun to pick up like the speeding of a drumbeat, to his sitting room.

A bird (a thrush, he recognized distantly) was flying around the ceiling, settling briefly on his armchair before hopping to the windowsill, then making another panicked circle around the room.

Its jerky movements nearly made him recoil. To have something move so quickly after the gray, slow weeks before shocked him.

After a moment, Bilbo recovered and walked into the center of the room. The bird did not halt its movements—if anything, his presence caused its wings to flutter even faster, and it let out another high-pitched chirp. He reached up hesitantly, as though to calm it, but the thrush stayed well out of his reach.

Bilbo sighed and moved towards the front door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, staring pointedly at the thrush as though it was an unwelcome guest who hadn’t quite taken the hint yet. Such tactics wouldn’t have worked during his last home invasion, but perhaps this bird was more well-versed in its manners.

A quiet breeze drifted through the door, caressing his cheek, and Bilbo turned his head. 

Shock jolted through his body. It was all there, beyond his door—pale yellow sunlight, green grass, and fields already dotted with flowers.

Of course, he’d known for some time that spring had already arrived. But the smell of fresh grass and warm air made something in his chest unfurl a little. By just the tiniest fraction, it became easier to breathe.

Something shot past his face, making him start. He looked up and saw the thrush dart out into the air, settling on his fence for a moment before taking off once more.

Bilbo watched the bird as it fluttered away, becoming a brown blur, then just a smudge against the blue sky. Something like a smile edged onto his face, and he turned and went back inside.

* * *

It was nearly a week later that Bilbo ventured outside again. He dressed himself in clean clothes and washed his face. He stepped outside, took a deep breath, and realized the feeling he’d experienced a week before had not been an illusion after all.

Then he set off down the path towards Hamfast’s house.

When the bright yellow door swung open, it was a while before any greetings were exchanged. Hamfast’s expression shifted from friendly to shocked to nervous, and when he finally smiled, it was slightly frozen on his face.

Bilbo had looked in the mirror before he’d left the house, and had no trouble guessing the reason for his gardner’s reactions. He just wasn’t sure if it was the dark circles under his eyes or the weight he’d lost or the pallor of his skin that surprised Hamfast the most.

Whatever he’d been about to say caught in his throat, and Bilbo half-considered turning away from the door. It was hardly proper for him to act on an invitation a week later, after all. He felt exposed, standing in the middle of someone else’s yard with no armor and no weapon and no idea how to navigate the situation.

“Mister Bilbo.” Hamfast’s voice was laden with forced cheer. “Good...Good to see you. Why don’t you come on in?”

He only remembered at the last second to speak. “Thank you.” His voice came out hoarse with disuse. As he stepped inside and Hamfast closed the door behind him, he felt prickles of discomfort crawl across his skin.

“So…” Hamfast flapped his arms against his sides, shuffling around as though he wasn’t sure where to stand. “How, uh, how have you been?”

The question barreled towards him like an angry troll, and there was barely time to duck away from it. Bilbo struggled for something to say, something that would at least qualify as an answer, and finally settled on, “Well, my arm’s healed. Some scarring, though, but it’s...well. Still works and everything.”

“Good, good. That’s good.” Hamfast nodded with exaggerated effort.

“A-And what about you?” Bilbo asked, hoping to take the focus off of himself. “Your garden?”

“Oh.” At this, Hamfast seemed to brighten, some of the tension falling from his shoulders. “Just planted the first seeds there, actually. Had to borrow some fresh soil from Will, if you can believe it.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “Now, there’s somethin’ I never thought I’d have to do. Borrowin’ dirt. Though I suppose it’s been a strange few months.”

“Indeed it has.” Bilbo let out a shaky sigh as another wave of grief passed over him. He looked up. “And I am very sorry I forgot to bring it, but I will return your axe to you as soon as possible.”

“My axe?” Confusion passed over his face. “Well, I’d quite forgotten I’d lent it to you. What’d you need it for, again?”

“The, um…” But there was no point in giving the truth. Hamfast had remembered the tree when it had first appeared, and now that it was gone, it seemed he had forgotten it altogether. “Just for firewood.”

“Well, come on,” Hamfast motioned for him to follow as he walked farther into the house. “I hope you don’t mind, we’ve already got guests. Your cousin Drogo and his family.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said, then added, “The more the merrier,” because it seemed like the right thing to say.

Bell, Drogo, and his wife Primula were gathered around the dining room table. Sitting on Primula’s lap was a baby. They all looked up and greeted him when he entered, and Bilbo returned the gesture, already feeling rather exhausted and out of sorts.

“Have you met little Frodo, yet?” Primula asked, shifting her hold on the baby.

“He is just the sweetest thing,” Bell said with a grin.

“Oh.” Bilbo stepped forward to get a better look and his heart gave a nasty wrench as he took in the tuft of dark hair on the baby’s forehead and the bright blue eyes looking inquisitively at each of their faces.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. It wasn’t even the fiftieth time that some mundane object or thought had sent his thoughts hurtling back to his dwarf—his smiles, his stories, his memory. He could feel it welling up inside, replacing the air in his lungs and pressing against the back of his throat.

“Congratulations,” someone said, and he belatedly realized it had been him.

“Thank you.” Primula’s smile was tinged with concern, and he realized his lapse hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Would you like some tea, Bilbo?” Bell asked, then stood up and said, “I’ll go make some more,” without waiting for him to respond.

With no small amount of effort, Bilbo made room for himself to breathe and stood up straight. “I wanted to thank the both of you,” he said, nodding at Drogo and Hamfast. “For speaking up for me back at the Green Dragon. I know that was months ago, but, well…”

“Think nothing of it,” Drogo shrugged. “I hear something I agree with, I say so.”

“You said what we all needed to hear.” Hamfast nodded, then smiled at Bilbo. “We all ought to stick together, in good times and bad.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Drogo said, raising his teacup and making everyone laugh.

For the first time since...he couldn’t remember, really, Bilbo felt a genuine smile lift the corners of his lips. He took a seat next to Hamfast and watched baby Frodo try to grasp a handful of his mother’s hair.

Pain filled his chest again, but it was a different kind this time, like the discomfort that comes from working out a cramped muscle. When he managed to breathe out, another fraction of tension left his body.

Another dizzying feeling came on the heels of that sensation. It was a sudden shift in the air, as though the world had righted itself beneath his feet. He hadn’t quite regained his footing yet, and the pain hadn’t disappeared completely. Bilbo knew it wouldn’t for a long time.

But perhaps, in time, his world would be able to balance itself out once more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that I am fortunate to have never lost anyone close to me, so the depiction of Bilbo's grief here is entirely from research. I hope I did that part justice.  
> And with that, The Fallen Oak comes to an end. Thank you so much to everyone who commented, left kudos, or read along silently, I really appreciate you giving this fic a chance. And y'all came through with the comments for last chapter, and I really appreciate that.  
> I also want to talk a little bit about the themes in this fic. I've always been really interested in the Baggins/Took conflict in Bilbo's personality. As a mixed race person, I know how hard it is to have a dual identity and it came sometimes be really hard to find a sense of belonging (ie not being white enough and at the same time not being Asian enough). So I tried to tangentially explore those themes in this fic. I know most of y'all were probably here for the bagginshield but sometimes I like to get deep.  
> Anyway, thanks once again to everyone, and keep an eye on this profile next week, when I'll be posting a new (less sad) story!


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